


Romance is Overrated and Living Confusing

by 3HobbitsInATrenchcoat



Series: Lies We Only Tell Ourselves [2]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Asexual Ford Pines, Bill Cipher is a Jerk, Cheating, Divorced Character, Fluff, Frank discussion of sexuality, Grayromantic Character, M/M, Slow Romance, asexual Fiddleford, emotional cheating, implied marital problems, the aching tenderness of non-sexual human contact, violence against gnomes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:29:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25160893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/3HobbitsInATrenchcoat/pseuds/3HobbitsInATrenchcoat
Summary: Stanford and Fiddleford started out as college roommates and over the years grew into something more than friends but just to the side of what others would consider a "normal relationship." But honestly, is it really anyone's business what they are as long as they care deeply for each other?Scenes from Stanford's life as he tries to figure out where he fits in a world built for romance and traditional family dynamics.
Relationships: Fiddleford H. McGucket/Ford Pines
Series: Lies We Only Tell Ourselves [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1822711
Comments: 27
Kudos: 62





	1. College Haze

**Author's Note:**

> A lot of this is based on my own experience. Full disclosure I'm closer to a aroflux demipansexual but I tried to make it work.  
> Anyway. Stanford Pines is a dumbass and attempts to woo his best friend with gift of shiny rock on multiple occasions. That's just how this goes sometimes.

Ford has always prided himself on his ability to focus on his work. Aside from his friendship with his twin he found interpersonal relationships distracting and unnecessary. Why waste money and time on a date that he could spend on research?

He knew that made people uncomfortable, so he put on his best face in public, mirroring Stan's easy laugh and open affection until he could replicate it enough to get by on his own. And for a long time that was enough. He went on a calculated single date every couple months to keep his parents happy. (“A strapping young lad needs a lady around!” Filbrick said once, heavy hand landing far too solidly on Ford's shoulder.) He let words he didn't quite believe in slip from his mouth in earshot of his mother, compliments on his date's appearance and general demeanor that were enough to keep her from wondering.

Ford was polite and attentive at first, but within an hour or so he would give up on the pretense and become distracted. The ticking of his watch against his wrist would inform him of all the time he was missing and at the first available excuse he would slip home. He never went on a date with the same girl twice, they knew better now. He guessed.

It didn't hurt his feelings, he just wondered sometimes what his brother saw in romance. Stan liked to wine and dine his dates, go to movies and give them flowers and moon over them when they weren't around. He got giddy when dates did the same in return.

The thought of someone just... giving something to him because they liked him made Ford queasy. He supposed if it was a practical gift it might be ok, maybe a new multitool or parts for his latest invention. But flowers and chocolates and all those other horrible romantic cliches left uncomfortable prickles along his spine and a bad taste in his mouth.

So he went on the occasional stiffly formal date, left a perfunctory kiss on his date's cheek at the end of it, and didn't trouble himself with anything beyond what was necessary to make him seem socially acceptable. Appearances were everything, after all. At least according to his father. Ford would never get into his dream school without a good work/life balance. A healthy attraction to girls looked good on paper, he supposed.

Attraction was just so foreign to Ford. He'd asked Stan once, after his brother had snuck back in from yet another secretive date, what it was like to be attracted to someone. Stan had furrowed his brow and waved his hands in the air while describing what sounded like a bad case of food poisoning. A swooping stomach and increased heart rate didn't sound super healthy to Ford, but when he said as much to Stan the other had snorted with laughter and gently punched his shoulder.

“I can only tell ya what I feel, Poindexter,” he'd said one spring afternoon, just a few weeks before everything went to hell. “I just want to take care of my partners and be taken care of. It's nice, and makes me feel all fuzzy like a blanket.”

Ford had flung his arm over his face with a frustrated huff. “Maybe I'm just doing it wrong. I'll let you know if I have an opportunity to test the theory.”

Stan had responded with an offended squawk and insisted that relationships weren't a science to be experimented on. It was “rude.” Ford's further objections were met with a pillow to the face.

It was the last good day in a long time.

\-----

Getting out of his parents' house had always been a dream of Ford's and now – stuck in a “mostly bug-free” college dorm with a no-show for a roommate – he's not so sure he's pleased with the outcome.

He spent his days lonely in a way he had never considered. After all, he had been far too furious with Stan to truly grasp the suffocating silence of their once-shared room, but as the darkness of an unfamiliar space closed in around him, Ford missed his brother. Not enough to ask his mother if she'd heard anything and risk Pa's wrath, but enough to wonder very briefly if he'd made a mistake.

No. He can't think like that. Dwelling on the past will only hinder his ability to look towards the future. Over the first few weeks of freshman year Ford gets very good at putting his brother out of his head. The empty air and missing-limb feeling slowly fade into a background of white noise that Ford can ignore as long as he's filling his head with other thoughts. Ford began to fear late nights, when the unnatural stillness of his empty room jerked him out of sleep with all the grace of a lead brick.

He tried to go on dates like he did in high school, hoping maybe time and distance from family would improve his success rate. Maybe if he found a steady girlfriend his room wouldn't be so lonely. It wasn't as if Backupsmore had any true enforcement of their already lax co-ed “guidelines...”But these dates were just as performative and clinical as his dates before college. A pleasant walk, surface-level conversation, an inexpensive yet nice dinner that he zoned out of halfway through, and a dry, meaningless kiss on the cheek as he dropped his date off at her dorm building door. After a few weeks Ford just stopped trying.

And then, year half over, a mutual friend introduced him to Fiddleford Hadron McGucket.

The man was wiry and nervous and came complete with a banjo/hamboning habit that in any other situation might drive Ford to madness. Had in fact driven his former roommate to kick him to the curb and their mutual friend knew Ford had space.

Anything was better than the stagnant silence of Ford's room at midnight.

\-----

“Nice place ya got here.” Fiddleford dumps the last of his luggage on the foot of the empty bed and goes to peer out one of the narrow windows that overlook the ball fields out back. Ford merely grunts in what he hopes is an appropriate greeting and keeps staring daggers at his textbook. His scientific knowledge is going to change the _world_ and here he is, studying some low-effort English general education class.

His professor doesn't even grade quality, just quantity! He wrote three pages on how the class was a waste of his time and got an A.

Maddening.

“Earth to Stanferd,” Fiddleford says, and Ford's eyes snap up to meet the amused squint of his new roommate. “Now what'd that book ever do to ya? Ya look like you want to set it on fire.”

Wordlessly, Ford holds up the “100 Essential American Short Stories” textbook and Fiddleford winces.

“Ah. Haywick's class.” Fiddleford leans heavily against his lofted bed and absentmindedly picks at his nails. “Prob'ly the worst class in this whole institution. I swear they just use it ta weed out the science majors so the tenured profs don't have ta read more garbage than they already do.” He lets out an exaggerated shudder. “As long as you can string words together ya should be golden.”

Ford has many thoughts that he could express about that particular statement, but he settles for “It's a waste of my time.”

Fiddleford just tilts his head back and laughs, exposing a slender throat and Ford has the sudden inexplicable urge to reach out and _touch._ He shakes his head minutely to get rid of the thought. When he refocuses on his new friend, an easy grin is shining in his direction.

“Why don't ya take a break? We can get some grub an' talk about how not to blow up our room with personal projects.”

Ford looks reluctantly back at his desk, but he knows all the projects he currently has can be done in a fraction of the time it takes other people. With a sigh and a stretch to pop his back, he stands. “Alright, Fidds. Lets grab some 'grub'.”

\-----

The next few years pass in a haze of general education classes and increasingly complicated projects that take up vast swaths of their tiny room. Fiddleford focuses more and more on personal electronics, his side of the room a humming glow of electricity and diodes. In stark contrast, Stanford's side is stacked full of books and scale models of future inventions.

He wants to present nothing but groundbreaking research and Fiddleford often has to remind him that even the greatest scientists had to learn the basics first. This sentiment is often accompanied by a wrapped sandwich or an admonishment to “take a shower and go the fuck ta sleep Stanferd, it's been three days.” The two students share their space fairly easily and nothing explodes or otherwise makes their living arrangement uninhabitable.

So, college is going well all things considered.

It's a lazy Saturday afternoon Spring of Junior Year when things take a turn in an unexpected direction. Stanford has been working half-heartedly on his typewriter in the rising heat of the old brick dorm and Fiddleford is nowhere to be found, so Ford assumes he's probably out scouring junkyards for useful scrap.

He's half a paragraph onto a new page when a horrendous thumping and scraping sound filters in from the hallway. Ford has just enough time to look up as the door crashes open and Fidds careens through the doorway followed by what looks like a whole small vehicle's worth of scrap wrapped up in a ratty canvas tarp.

Ford smirks in the direction of the inventor before turning back to his homework. “Leave any good scrap for the rest of us?”

There's an amused snort accompanied by some shuffling and metallic banging. “It's just some cables an' a couple fenders I think I kin pound flat. Besides, it's not like _you_ use scrap with all yer 'Applied Theoretical Physics' or whatever it is Hansley is teaching these days.” Ford feels him move across the room and then the warm weight of his friend is draped over his back, Fidds' chin digging slightly uncomfortably into his scalp.

“It's 'Applied Gravitational Theory for the Modern Scientist' and it's a joint course between Hansley and Gregson.” Ford chuckles. “They spend more time yelling opposing theories at each other than actually teaching the class.”

Fidds hums in agreement from above him and the vibration sends a strange shiver down his spine. “Alright then, Mr. Modern Scientist. I'mma gonna go get myself cleaned up and then what would ya say to trying the new burger joint down the street?”

“Sure, Fidds, I could use a break.” Ford reaches for his typewriter, intent on finishing this paragraph at least but freezes as he feels the unmistakable press of a kiss against the top of his head.

“Back in a jiff, Stanferd.”

Then Fiddleford is out the door before Ford can really process what just happened.

\-----

They don't talk about that first kiss.

They don't talk about any of the kisses that come after, feather-light brushes of lips against Ford's hair as he sits transfixed at his desk. They don't talk about Ford trailing his fingers affectionately across Fiddleford's shoulders as he heads to class in the morning and passes the man still tinkering away.

Little gestures just become part of the routine alongside reminders to eat and shower and “For the last time, Fidds, if you don't go to sleep I am going to smother you with that quilt your ma sent you last week.”

The first few times Ford tensed up, expecting his friend to say something or want something in return. But slowly, ever so slowly, he relaxes into the touch and finds it soothing in an odd sort of way. He finds himself considering his friend in a new, warm light. It feels like comfort and home, something he hasn't felt in a long time. He wonders if he's finally cracked in the absence of his brother and...

He grinds that thought into metaphorical dust. His brother is no longer his business. Stanley hasn't made any attempt to contact him and Ford only knows his general whereabouts because sometimes Ma will mention him over the phone before pausing uncomfortably and going “Oh, honey, I forgot again. I'm sorry.”

But sometimes, in the dark of night against the backdrop of Fiddleford tinkering (usually) or snoring (rarely), he wonders what Stan would think of him now that he's having weird thoughts about his roommate. He's not sure the thoughts are romantic and they sure as hell aren't sexual, but they're weird and fuzzy. It's like his heart stutters just a little bit when Fidds walks into the room and speaks to him in his atrocious drawl, its like he forgets how to breathe for just a second whenever they brush against each other in their tiny corner dorm room.

It's distracting and that is the last thing Ford needs right now. So he throws himself harder into work and harder into ignoring Fiddleford's affection and somehow makes it through the rest of spring without embarrassing himself. However, if a new tool or five mysteriously ends up on Fiddleford's workbench because it just felt right to do _something_... well that is on Ford and no one else ever has to know.

The most puzzling thing is this: The kisses don't stop in the Fall when Fiddleford shows back up to school and immediately starts going out with Emma-May. Fidds still drops the occasional soft kiss on the top of Ford's head and goes about his day like nothing happened. Ford doesn't know how to feel about this. On the one hand, he's relieved because now he can stop wondering what it all means and focus on his thesis. He's gunning for a very prestigious grant and a nice plot of land in the middle of Oregon, he has to be the best of the best. On the other hand, he feels a sort of empty ache every time Fidds doesn't return to the room until late. It's like he wants to reach out but knows that all he will grasp is empty air.

Ford decided a long time ago that he didn't have time for relationships, he isn't going to start now on a man who is already taken. He will accept Fidds' open affection for the friendly overture it most likely is and be happy that his friend is happy.

He throws himself so hard into his work it is hard to see anything beyond theories and calculations. He doesn't see the veiled longing in Fiddleford's eyes or the jealous way Emma-May hovers whenever he is around. Not as the two roommates start drifting apart as graduation nears. Not as Fiddleford nervously asks him to be his best man. And not even as Fiddleford announces that he's moving to California with his new bride as soon as graduation is over.

Ford expects this. Everyone leaves in the end, after all.

He doesn't expect the crushing feeling of suffocation at the wedding or the way his traitor heart beats so hard he swears that everyone else in the room can hear it.

Ford barely gets two sentences out beyond his best man speech before he's racing back to his empty dorm room and throwing the last of his possessions into his car for the long drive to Oregon.

He's crossed several state lines before he realizes he forgot to say goodbye.


	2. Close Encounters of the Mutual Misunderstanding Kind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ford tries very hard to be a functional adult. He also makes a friend.

The move into Gravity Falls goes fairly smoothly as far as Ford is concerned. He's so busy with planning and research that he just forgets for a while that he is all alone in the middle of some vaguely spooky woods next to a town that he is fairly certain has never once been properly surveyed.

He gets the occasional postcard from Fiddleford. The first one is just two weeks in, sent from some Appalachian Honeymoon Destination Town and smelling vaguely of moonshine. Another comes in the next month from Palo Alto, assuring Ford that “Em' and I are settlin' in nicely. There's a whole market for these personal computin' machines!” There's no true pattern to the postcards, but they arrive all the same. Little snippets of a life Ford isn't part of, has no right to be part of. He has his own life here in Gravity Falls and a mission he has assigned himself to fill.

The postcards get stacked neatly on his kitchen counter. He never reads them more than once, for fear that the lump in his throat would grow to choke him. _It's better this way_ , he tells himself. _He's happy. That's all that matters._ It doesn't stop the tremble in his hands and the speed of his heart every time he sees the gloss of a postcard in his mailbox. He treasures every word.

One afternoon well into Ford's second year in Oregon brings another postcard (Palo Alto skyline in a firey sunset) Fidds' cramped handwriting near illegible. Ford almost ignores it for a couple days, he's deep into planning another overnight trip to the floating cliffs and he thought it could probably wait until he got back. He often leaves Fidds' cards for a day when he has time to give them the careful read their friendship deserves. But there is something about the hurried handwriting that makes him pause and actually read it.

“Dear Stanford,” it starts, as all the others have. “I'm happier than a pig in mud and you're the first one I wanted to tell. Em and I are havin' a baby! I know it's earlier than we had talked about but I guess the universe just couldn't wait. I'm gonna be a Pa to a little Tater or Tansy an' I'm so excited I could cry.” The handwriting became even more cramped as Fiddleford clearly ran out of room. “Anywho, thought ya should know since there's no way in hell I'm not introducing the little tyke to their godfather. If you'll have them. Missing you, Fidds.”

The words swim in front of Ford's eyes and he gently sets the postcard down as the ache in his chest swells into a tingling numbness across his entire body. He should be happy. Fiddleford wants to appoint him the kid's _godfather_ and he should be ecstatic. But all he can feel is a cold, hollow emptiness that follows on the heels of the numbness and settles heavy into his limbs. Ford's brain is clicking uselessly against the knowledge that Fidds has a family and that he is alone. Mostly by choice, he could have asked Fidds to follow him. He could have turned back and yanked open the curtains on the window one last time...

With a quick shake of his head, Ford dispells that thought. Hands steady (more from practice rather than composure), he writes a grateful congratulatory response on a postcard of his own. He will mail it tomorrow, for now he needs a cup of tea and...

He loses the rest of the day to staring sightlessly through his kitchen window, coming back to himself and his ice cold tea only when the shadows start closing in. It's never a good idea to look deeply into the treeline at night, so he shutters the windows and goes to bed. His dreams are restless but in the morning he stuffs his answer in the mailbox and then throws himself into his project to drown out his spiraling thoughts. If he fills his head with theories, there will be no room for anything else. Besides, it is exhilarating being on the cutting edge of research, in a place where he can finally study his Unified Theory of Weirdness. Every day brings something new and undocumented into his life.

For several months that is all he needs. Between walking several miles a day to catalogue every corner of the area and spending every other spare moment simultaneously finishing a few more PHD courses, Ford is so tired every night that he falls into a heavy and dreamless sleep as soon as his head hits his pillow.

\-----

The following winter hits with far more force than Ford ever expected. Boyish Dan stops by one crisp afternoon to drop off a supply delivery along with a warning from the local weather station and less than an hour later a blizzard rolls in, whiting out anything more than a foot from the front porch.

Ford is instantly reminded that he lives utterly alone. He's so shocked by that first thought that the next one physically knocks him backward onto his couch, where he sits somewhat dazed and wondering why the thought of being wrapped in blankets and sipping cocoa with Fiddleford of all people is the first thing on his mind.

The idea leaves a warmth in his chest that he doesn't think he should examine too closely. Fiddleford is happily married. He has a kid on the way. It apparently has not changed the way Ford feels about him one single bit, but he owes it to his friendship to force the thoughts out of his mind.

This is harder said than done with the blizzard raging on beyond his windows and Ford's usual escapist pastimes unavailable. With a sigh Ford sinks further into the couch and pulls his latest journal out of his pocket. He idly flips through the pages, thinking of nothing in particular yet also desperately wishing he could share his findings with someone. He doesn't want a partner, at least not in the traditional terms so many people seem to project on him. He just wants... to not be alone. To make someone else laugh. To have someone next to him that he can sling his arm over the shoulder of and gesture wildly at some new discovery.

Maybe someone to hold on cold, dark nights. Maybe someone that will drop soft kisses into his hair and not expect anything back.

Ford finds himself staring blankly at another page in his journal, heart aching for the casual intimacy of those last couple college years. As always, though, the thoughts are tinted with the confusion of being so sure of oneself for many years before being confronted with an entirely different aspect of self. With a sigh, Ford turns to a blank page and starts to write things down. It always helped solving the mysteries of weirdness, maybe it would help solve more personal mysteries too.

He writes as the thoughts come to him over the next several days. Whole paragraphs on what exactly make him uncomfortable about “modern romantic notions” fill half a page before he catches himself sketching a familiar profile in the margins. He starts trying to justify his lack of sexual attraction too before scribbling out the sentences, face flaming. He thinks he might like to kiss someone someday, just to see what it's like. But he knows himself well enough to know it probably would never go farther than that. The whole “process” seems messy and unappealing.

When he has filled several pages he takes a step back and looks at his observations. As an individual he has to admit that the whole idea of traditional romance and relationships is largely uninteresting. However, as a scientist he thinks that he cannot know the truth without a bit more data. One fluke attachment in a long string of single-date attempts does not make a strong case for any hypothesis.

Come spring Ford will just have to find himself some semblance of a partner and see if he can replicate his feelings for Fiddleford with someone else. Maybe then he will have more conclusive data to draw from. Maybe then he can move on from his confusing emotions every time he thinks of his best friend.

Satisfied with his conclusions, Ford settles in for the winter. Once the blizzard passes he will have a whole new canvas on which the weird world outside will paint itself. He's looking forward to seeing what kind of tracks the denizens of the woods will leave in the freshly fallen snow. For now, he can use the time to finalize his next thesis paper and clean up everything else for publication.

\-----

Come spring thaw Ford has two more PhD's in his possession and is no closer to finding a suitable partner for his relationship tests. He resists the urge to refer to them as a subject on paper, even though in his heart he knows that is truly the case. He's trying to be a gentleman about this after all.

He briefly considers taking a day to go into town and try to meet someone. At the grating sour feeling that pours down his spine, he quickly dismisses that idea. It seems so impersonal to just... walk up an introduce himself to someone.

Maybe he could put a personal advertisement in the paper. People still did that, right? But that seemed even more impersonal. “Solitary scientist in search of research and possible romantic partner. Must enjoy week-long excursions into the haunted forest and not expect anything beyond a brusque kiss on the cheek.” Yeah, that would go over well and not bring strange folk to his yard in search of fresh gossip.

Ultimately opportunity literally lands in his lap.

The far side of Lake Gravity Falls contains a wealth of unexplored wonders. Ford spends many quiet afternoons in heavy fly-fishing pants cataloging wetland plants and unusual insects. He's turning back to shore for a short break when something heavy collides with his back and he goes sprawling into the swampy muck that serves as a shoreline on this stretch of lake.

“Oh gosh,” gasps a voice as he ineffectually tries to wipe the mud off his glasses. “I'm so sorry, are you hurt? Let me help you up.” A hand grasps for his and hauls him to his feet. He steadies himself on the offered arm and then squints at his new acquaintance through streaky glass. They appear tall and willowy, with a ruddy completion and... soft green hair? Ford blinks but the hair remains the same. They also appear to be wearing very little in the clothing department, just some artfully draped fabric across their torso and hips. He snaps his eyes up to meet their face.

They have tilted their head curiously and are staring at him. “You wouldn't happen to be that curious human that lives out near the gnome forest would you?”

At the word “human” Ford's mind snaps suddenly into focus. This individual wouldn't be asking unless... “Yes, I am Dr. Pines. May I ask wha... _who_ you might be? And what lead to your rather abrupt appearance?”

There is a humming laugh, nearly a single musical note. “I have had many names but I think you may call me Kal. My apologies again for rushing into you so suddenly. I was hurrying to hide from my sisters and was not watching where I was going.”

Ford frowns, fingers already itching for the journal they wisely left higher and drier on the shore. “You were running from your sisters?” he says, trying not to be distracted by Kal's hair, which seems less like hair on closer inspection and more like a soft biological form of seagrass. “Is everything alright?”

“Oh, I am perfectly fine.” Kal laughs again, this time the sound rings clear as a bell. “It is just a little game we play.” They wave out towards the water and Ford looks up to see two other figures waving back. “One of us hides on the shore and the others must try to spot them. It seems this time I have lost due to my carelessness.”

“I don't want to disrupt your day, if you need to return to your family...” says Ford. “But if you have a bit of time I would love to ask you some questions about the area. Maybe about yourself.”

“I think I would like that. I grew up in Avyysdonti so I know a little about the land around us.” They glance farther up the shore, where a small rock outcropping juts into the lake. “I can't move too far from the water, but if you would like we could sit up there. You could even bring that notebook the fairies keep gossiping about.”

“Yes! Of course!” Ford scrambles up onto dry land, shrugging off his now useless fly fishing gear and already struggling into his trenchcoat. “I'd like to start with what you just said. Is Avyysdonti this lake or the whole valley? Why can't you move too far from the water? How often do you talk to other beings in the forest?”

He's running out of air but the questions are all flickering through his brain too fast to function. Kal only smiles. “All in due time, Dr. Pines.”

The words slip out before he can spare a thought to stop them. “Please, call me Ford.”

Kal turns out to have a lot to say about the surrounding area. They confirm that their people call the lake Avyysdonti, though they are unsure of the origins, and that they belong to a small choir of freshwater sirens. Ford furiously writes down every scrap of information his new friend is willing to tell him, only stopping when the sun dips behind the mountains and the evening air begins to chill.

“Will you come back tomorrow?” asks Kal as they lounge across the rocks, one hand trailing in the water below and the other propping up their chin. “I enjoyed this visit and have much more to tell you.”

Ford straightens his trenchcoat and settles his journal more securely in its pocket. “I guess I could. It's been nice having a conversation that doesn't involve screaming at the gnomes for raiding my garbage again.”

“Hmm, see you tomorrow then, Ford.” Ford nods, still fussing with his coat. He glances up at the gentle splash and sees nothing but ripples and sea-grass hair as Kal swims away. He knew that a moment ago the siren had had feet, but now he swears that the tip of a fin slices through the water before that too is gone.

The next day Ford shows up mid-morning with a basket lunch and a collection of photos. He figures that since the siren can't stray too far into the outside world he can bring the outside world to them. It's surprising but nice to find that he is excited about interacting with another being, even if they aren't strictly human. The rocky outcropping is empty when he arrives but after a few moments Kal appears, shaking scales from their legs and water from their eyes. Ford asks about siren anatomy and they launch into a long explanation that is half current fact and half nearly-forgotten myth. The day is lost to the scratch of his pen and the musical lilt of Kal's voice.

Ford vaguely thinks he ought to be worried that this is a siren he is so enraptured by. But they have so much knowledge he can't quite bring himself to care.

Despite enjoying his time with Kal, Ford doesn't spend every day at the lake. He still has other expeditions planned and a house full of equipment to constantly tinker with. Oftentimes though, if he has no firm goal for the day, he will find his feet carrying him to the edge of the water and his eyes search across the gentle ripples for his friend. Kal is always there to greet him with a smile and a story.

They grow close over the summer. Ford has page after page of information Kal has given him, has two pages dedicated to sirens and filled with endless sketches of Kal: laughing, pensive, smirking, and everything in between.

On the day the fall chill creeps in from the mountains Kal greets him, shivering, one last time.

“Where will you go?” Ford asks, pen poised over his notebook.

Kal stares off down the lake towards the south-running river. “There are a few lakes farther south my choir likes to winter in. We will probably stay down there until mid spring.”

“And will you come back here, or do you have another northern home?” Ford is genuinely curious, he finds the idea that Kal may not return leaves a sour taste in his mouth.

The thought is banished with a silver laugh. “Avyysdonti is our home, we only leave because we do not wish to be trapped under the ice for months.” They reach out and gently punch Ford's shoulder. “When I return you will have to update me on all of the local gossip. And I will tell you about the warmer southern climate.”

Ford chuckles, “Alright, I won't worry then. Stay safe and I will see you in the spring.”

He wonders if the ache in his chest as he watches Kal swim off with their family is related to friendship or something else. He thinks he might ask when spring comes.

\-----

Ford spends the whole lonely winter thinking of ways to ask Kal how they feel. So much so that he plans many first greetings that sound awkward even to his unpracticed ear. In the end Ford settles for traveling to the lake every morning following the first spring thaw and gazing across to the islands hoping to see familiar ripples approaching. He takes a thermos of tea and two tin cups, hoping that this is the morning he won't have to drink it alone.

When Kal does return, Ford doesn't have to even wait for them. They are sitting on the edge of the familiar rocky outcropping on a sunny April day, a grin on their face as soon as they see Ford.

“I hope you weren't waiting long,” says Ford as he settles in next to them and hands them a mug of tea. “I hope the trip north was uneventful.”

Kal nudges him with a shoulder. “No you don't, or you wouldn't have anything to write down.”

Ford laughs, pulling out his journal. “Of course, you know me too well. Tell me all about it then, I'm sure you have all kinds of tales.”

Between sips of steaming tea, Kal regales Ford with tales of their winter home. They don't know a lot about human geography, so Ford guesses they stayed in a small lake somewhere near central California. It is apparently a popular gathering spot for many of the aquatic races in the northwest.

“A few of them visit up here in the summer, I told them they could trust you if you ever encountered them.” Kal says, halfway through a story about a family of selkies that usually masqueraded as humans. “They aren't likely to seek you out unless they are in trouble, but it's nice to know at least one human is on our side.”

Ford frowns, pen poised above a fresh page. “I'm a scientist, doesn't that worry you?”

Kal merely hums into their tea. “If I thought you were bad news I wouldn't be talking with you, Ford. Reading people is kind of... my whole deal.”

Ford briefly wonders if that means Kal knows how he felt all winter, but then his friend has launched back into their story and he is left scrambling to catch up.

He doesn't have another opportunity to broach the subject to Kal again until summer is half-over. They're sitting on their usual outcropping, legs dangling over the edge and ice pops in hand like two schoolyard kids, and Ford thinks _I could stay like this forever..._ Before he can halt his thoughts, another one rises unbidden. _Heh, Stan would probably find some way to call this a date._

Beside him, he feels Kal freeze before he glances over to see the stricken look on their face. “Shit, I said that out loud, didn't I?”

“No,” Kal pauses, and the hard swallow seems to stick in their throat. “You didn't have to. When strong emotions are directed at me, I know.” Their face _twists_ and they hurl their half-eaten treat into the water below before burying their face in their hands. “Fuck! I thought I had finally managed to make a friend that wasn't drawn to me by some sort of... ancient curse.”

“Whoa, slow down,” Ford feels his heart rate accelerate, the scientific voice in the back of his head screaming to write all this down, but for once he tries to be a friend. “I don't recall any sort of curse being involved in our friendship. We just hang out all the time and gossip about the gnomes.”

Kal rubs at their eyes, and when they speak their voice catches. “When we first met, I sang at you for a month but your treatment of me never changed. I thought maybe we could be friends and now I find you think we've been dating the whole time and...”

Ford feels his stomach drop. He's considered asking Kal out on a date, but dismissed the idea every time with a sort of full-body shudder at the idea of performative romantic actions. Before this moment he thought that he might finally be feeling the “pull of romance” that his mother often spoke of but now he knows he's not. The idea that he might lose the only strong friendship he has fills him with sudden terror and he's suddenly painfully aware of the stark difference that romance might bring. How different this friendship is from the one he shares with Fiddleford.

“I don't, actually. I... I have only felt that way about one person, and they have someone else. At the beginning, maybe I considered it but...” He sighs and scrubs a hand through his hair. “I think it was the isolation. I would rather have your friendship.”

Kal looks up and Ford tries not to think about the fact that he's the one that made their face blotchy with tears. They stare hard at Ford's face, reading something there before nodding to themself. “Honestly, I'd been worried since I came back north. You were showing all the clear signs of finally falling to my song,” they laugh but it is a bitter thing that doesn't fit their usual cheerful demenor. “I stopped putting power into my voice when it was clear you were more interested in research than being distracted by a pretty face. I thought maybe it took a while to get to you, some humans are like that. You sing at them once and then a month later they just snap and walk off the end of the pier. But you...” Kal gestures at the journal open across Ford's knees and he feels his face flush even as he's writing down these new revelations. His friend chuckles, and this time it is genuine. “You just keep writing in your book. I suppose it's hard to compete with the siren-song of science.”

Ford makes an amused noise and holds out the journal to show Kal the addition to their page.

“ _They thought that I thought we were dating. Sorry, love, but I have a wife and her name is Science.”_

Kal's bell-like laughter rings out across the lake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be honest I am not very happy with how this chapter turned out. It just seems stilted and weird and try as I might I just... could not see Ford dating a Siren in any traditional sense. Maybe Dipper sees that last note and just... idk, extrapolates. Or maybe only the middle bit survives due to damage or something. IDK.
> 
> Some fun things: Kal's full name is Kalliapeil which is bastardized ancient greek for "Beautiful Threat" and the lake they live in is Lake Gravity Falls, but the choir of sirens that live there call it by a name known in prophesy "Avyysdonti" which is an extremely corrupted form of Ávyssos ton dontión (Abyss of Teeth). Ford will later see this and go "oh fuck that explains a whole hell of a lot."


	3. There's A Storm on the Horizon and All I Can Do is Watch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fiddleford and his son come for a visit. Secrets are reveled and mistakes are made.
> 
> Regret falls over Ford like a stormcloud.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so, content warning for this chapter. While it isn't super dark, it deals with really heavy themes. Cheating is a serious issue, even if it never goes farther than emotions and heavy petting. Another serious issue is respecting your own and others boundaries. Given the time period, no one really has the words for everything. So I want to preface this with: As much as I make Emma-may seem sketchy, she is not completely at fault. No one in this situation is in the right. Every adult is responsible for their own heartbreak.
> 
> Also please remember, as much as Ford might be feeling some kind of way, at the end of the day he's still grayromantic. Which is why he's having such a problem with feeling some kind of way. XD ~~Also, reminder, a lot of this is based on my personal experience and everyone's experience with romantic feelings and sexuality is different. My baseline experiences may not match yours.~~
> 
> Oh, one last thing. This chapter officially doubled the word count of this fic. XD

It's a warm spring afternoon when Fiddleford shows up on his doorstep, two year old son balanced on one hip and a duffle bag gripped tight in one hand. He'd called ahead only a day ago, saying something about how Ford had yet to meet his godson, but Ford had heard the quiver in his friend's voice.

He'd heard it enough in his mother's over the years to know there's more to it than that.

So Ford spends a day frantically child-proofing every room Tate might wander into on his stubby toddler legs, trying not to let his mind wander too much towards what could possibly have his best friend so worried that he's willing to make the drive to the middle of nowhere. Had something happened to Em? Was there something happening in Palo Alto? Did Fiddleford need to lay low after yet another ill-advised robotic rampage?

All of Ford's questions dry up in the face of his best friend physically standing in front of him. He's not a very physically affectionate man, but he still wraps his best friend in a hug before ruffling Tate's hair. The kid hides his face in his pa's neck, but peaks out every once in a while to take in his surroundings.

“I don't really have a usable guest room right now, but you can have my room until I can go pick up a mattress in town.” Ford says as he leads his guests down the hall. “I'll just sleep on the sofa in my study, heaven knows I've done that more often than not anyway.”

Fiddleford snorts out a huff of amused laughter. “You? Not sleepin' in a bed? Knock me over with a feather, Stanferd, I'm shocked.”

Ford feels his cheeks burn at the reminder that in college he often nodded off at his desk, face pillowed on a stack of academic journals. His bed only stayed made by virtue of him never really sleeping in it. Not much had changed, besides location. He still woke up many mornings with a book across his eyes, sprawled across the soft cushions of his study sofa.

The adjustment to having a curious child in the house is not as terrible a change as Ford had expected. When he's not napping or burning off excess energy in the backyard with his dad, he's wide-eyed and watching Ford sit at the worn kitchen table to update his journal.

He slowly moves from peering around the doorway to dashing across the room and peeking from behind the farthest table-leg. One afternoon Ford chuckles and nudges an empty chair out with his toe. Tate squeals a bit in surprise before running away, but the next day he's climbed into the chair with a fistful of paper and crayons.

Ford smiles softly at his young godson. “What have you got there, young man?”

Tate blinks shyly from under his bushy bangs and gestures towards Ford's journal with one crayon-filled fist. “Gonna draw! Like Unka Fern!” His voice is quiet but excited. Ford feels no small amount of pride bloom in his chest, a smile twitching across his face at the nickname. He and Fiddleford had slowly whittled it down from an alarming “Unka Stab-fern” to the less alarming but no more correct “Unka Fern”. It was a nickname Ford could live with though, especially coming from Fidds' adorable offspring.

“I do a bit more than drawing, Tate. But I'm honored you wish to draw with me.” Ford takes one last look at his journal. He'd honestly been wrapping up for the day, the weirdness of the town seemed to have plateaued over the past few months and he was growing frustrated with his inability to find new things. Kal had told him of a cave system near the lake, but he didn't wish to be rude to his guests and go spelunking for a few days while they were in town. He could put off the more serious exploration for later.

Closing the journal he set it aside, noting distantly that there were only a few more pages left. He'd have to bind a new volume soon... now was not the time to be thinking of that. Tate looked at him with confusion written across his small face, but Ford reached over and booped him softly on the nose.

“Why don't I do some drawing and then you can color it?” Ford slides a piece of the cheap printer paper over in front of him and grabs the least-sticky looking crayon. It's glittery and purple, but it's still a drawing utensil.

“Really!?” Ford hadn't thought Tate's eyes could get any bigger, but they did. “You'll draw for me?”

“Of course, my boy. Now, what would you like to color?”

The two spend the rest of the afternoon covering sheets of printer paper in increasingly fantastical creatures. Some of them are ones Ford has seen in and around the town, but others he pulls from his old Cryptozoology lectures – myths and legends of other lands springing up off the paper in glittery purple wax. Tate is fascinated by them all and when Fidds comes back from wherever he'd disappeared to (Ford thinks it may have been a phone-call with Emma-May but he hopes it was a nap) the two have their heads bent close together, twin looks of serious concentration on their faces.

\-----

“I'm worried about him.” Ford chucks a pinecone into the lake and watches as it bobs away on an invisible current. Beside him, Kal hums for him to continue but barely looks up from their book. They'd taken up the habit of reading terrible romance novels since they stole one from some poor tourist's picnic basket last summer, and the rocky outcropping they shared with Ford was a perfect spot to read.

“I just...” Ford falls backward with a frustrated sigh, pillowing his head on his folded coat. “He's been here two weeks and all he does when he's not watching Tate is sleep and talk to Em on the phone. I know he brought projects with him, but they're just collecting dust on the workroom floor.”

He'd overheard one of the calls from Emma-may (curiously Fidds never called her – she always called him), mostly consisting of the normally talkative Fiddleford mumbling “yes dear” and “no dear” into the receiver. Ford had moved to turn away and give his best friend some privacy but then he'd heard his own name, color finally creeping into Fidds' voice.

“Stanford's done well for himself, Em. It's nice up here in Oregon, just the kind of retreat I needed from the city...” A long pause followed and then the gray oozed back into Fidds tone as he sighed. “I don't know. I told you I needed time to think, can you please just give me that? Em look I...” Fidds stopped talking abruptly and even from a room away, Ford could hear the buzz of the dial tone. He snuck off down the hall before Fidds realized he'd heard.

Ford recounts this to Kal, who finally puts aside their book with a frown. “Did he tell you why he needed to come up for a visit?”

“Only that he missed me and wanted Tate to finally meet me.” Ford tilts his head back and watches the wispy summer clouds pass overhead. “There's something wrong though, I can tell. Kal, if you could have heard the way his voice shook on the phone... I haven't pressed but I'm really worried. Then there's the other thing...”

The other thing bothers Ford more than anything else, blaring alarm bells taking residence in his head to scream that something is _very wrong._ Aside from the single hug when Fidds showed up on his front stoop, the man has shied away from every single touch Ford has offered him. It's like he can sense Ford's hands and _flinches_ just out of reach, covering his discomfort with a laugh that sounds barely alive.

Ford never thought he'd miss the casual kisses to the top of his head from college (mostly because he assumed they'd never stop), but they are glaring in their absence. Not once has Fidds stopped to lay a hand on Ford's shoulder as he reads the latest academic journal, peering over the top of his head in that easily familiar manner they'd had through senior year. Not once has he pressed a sleepy pre-coffee kiss into Ford's messy bedhead. Not once has he initiated any sort of contact beyond accidental brushes in the hallway as they make their separate ways to bed.

Ford reached out to his friend many times in those first few days, only for his fingers to close on empty air. After a week he stopped trying altogether.

Now he feels frustration rise as he relays this to Kal, whose vaguely curious expression is falling into concern with every word. “... I feel like my friend is finally back with my sight but he's on the other side of some unbreakable glass and as much as I scream and pound on the walls he can't hear me.”

Kal blinks back a somber look that on any other creature Ford would have interpreted as pity. “How well do you know Emma-may?” they ask, voice soft. “Like, really know her? Beyond what Fiddleford has told you, beyond any secondhand information you might have heard.”

“What do you mean?” Ford frowns and pushes himself up on his elbows. “She was a year behind us and gunning hard for medical school. Aside from her practically gluing herself to Fidds' hip our last year at Backupsmore I barely interacted with her.”

Kal hums and looks out across the water. “It could be nothing, Ford.” they say after a long pause, the lapping of the lake against the rock the only other sound in the stilling evening. “Just keep being there for your friend and maybe he'll open back up someday. In the meantime, if you need a hug... I'm always here.”

They reach down and offer their hand, hauling Ford back up to a sitting position. They lean together in the twilight, arms slung over each others shoulders. _It's nice_ Ford thinks. _But it's not the same._

\-----

A month into their visit, Tate has a bit of an... unexpected adventure.

It all starts with some mushrooms Ford had discovered on the edge of the forest. Well, actually, he hadn't been the one to find them. He'd had a small helper.

Fiddleford shuffled miserably into the kitchen that morning, dark circles under his eyes, and Ford had immediately spun him around and shoved him back towards the guest bedroom that they had finally put together after weeks of Ford sleeping on the study couch.

“What about Tate?” protested Fidds, struggling to keep upright with his eyes open. “He'll wake up soon and I promised we'd go to the park in town. He needs to get out of the house or he'll drive us both mad.”

“He can keep me company,” said Ford firmly. “We can take a walk to some of the more child-friendly parts of the forest and you can get some rest. I'm sure Tate would adore the miniature deer I saw last month.”

“Nothing about that forest is child-friendly,” grumbled Fidds under his breath, but he dutifully stumbled back down the hallway. Ford heard the door shut and a few minutes later soft snores came drifting down the hall.

Not long after that, Tate sleepily toddled into the kitchen, wiping grit from his eyes with the back of one chubby fist. Ford greeted him with a bowl of instant oatmeal (the only thing Fidds trusts him not to burn) and Tate eyed him quizzically as he sat down with his own bowl, pouring tiny candy dinosaurs into the hot oats.

“Papa sleeping,” he said matter-of-factly over the top of his bowl a few minutes later. He gripped the spoon in one fist, threatening disaster to the tabletop if not for the gyroscopic stabilizer Ford had whipped up after the pudding incident on week one. “I wanna go to the park...”

“Tate, your pa needs to rest.” Ford reached across the table and ruffled his godson's hair. “Its just you and me today, spud. We could go to the park or...” He trails off, making a show of thinking. “You could help me take samples on the edge of the woods. We could get you listed as the youngest contributor to my next dissertation.”

Tate blinked wide-eyed and Ford chuckled softly. “You'll understand in oh... about twenty years. Finish your breakfast and bring me your shoes. If we hurry we can be back in time to make your pa some lunch.”

“You mean Pa makes us lunch!” said Tate, brightening. “He said... he said...” his face screws up in concentration. “He said 'Unka Fern could burn water if left un.. unsupervision.'.”

“Unsupervised, yes.” corrected Ford gently. “But I think I can handle slapping together a couple sandwiches. Quick now, we need to get moving.”

He watched with amusement as Tate shoveled the rest of the oatmeal into his mouth before running back down the hall to grab his shoes. A little help tying them from Ford and the pair were out the back door and headed for the treeline. Despite what he'd told Fiddleford, Ford had no plans to go beyond the edge of the forest with such a young child in tow. He may have thoroughly explored the area around his research facility but that did not mean that new unexplained anomalies didn't occasionally spring up in the depths of the forest.

So, hand in hand, Ford and Tate meandered along the edge of the woods. Every so often Ford would pause to kneel down and point out the properties of an unusual plant, gently moving the leaves to explain what made it special. Sometimes there were bugs on the plants and Ford would lose several minutes explaining to a wide-eyed toddler what the different markings meant.

He'd just finished pulling Tate away from a particularly virulent strain of poison ivy when his young charge went wide-eyed and pointed excitedly just within the treeline. “What's that!? It's glowing, Unka Fern!!”

Ford squinted into the shadows under the trees and there, nestled in the crook of the roots, rested a patch of phosphorescent mushrooms. He didn't recognize them and felt the spike of adrenaline that always accompanied a new discovery. “I don't know what those are, spud. We can find out though. Do you have that specimen jar I gave you?”

Tate squealed enthusiastically and reached up to wiggle the straps on his tiny backpack. With a chuckle, Ford unzipped the pouch, a space just big enough to hold a medium-size glass jar and some gloves, and pulled out the simple equipment Tate had insisted on helping to carry.

“Now,” said Ford, pulling on the gloves with a dramatic snap. “You stay right here. We don't know what those mushrooms are, so I want you well away from them just in case. If I tell you to run, go back to the house and get your pa, ok?”

“You tell me to run, I go get pa,” Tate echoed back with a solemn nod, bushy bangs bouncing against his face.

“Good lad.” Ford screwed the top of the jar off and went to collect the mushrooms. He only grabbed a few, mentally noting how deep in the soil the stalks went and how the phosphorescence rubbed off onto his gloves. Popping them back in the jar he turned back to Tate, stripping off his gloves with a satisfied grin. “All done! Now lets... Hey, get away from him!”

A gnome had wandered out of the forest and was sizing Tate up, a considering look on his conniving bearded little face. At Ford's yell, he let out a startled “EEP!” and flung himself back into the undergrowth. In two strides Ford was back beside his godson, scooping the child up into his arms. He shook his free fist at the trees.

“Stay away from the kid, Todd! I'd better not catch you or yours near me and mine again, got it?”

A string of tinny gnomish curse words wafted out of the trees and Ford snorted derisively. Trust gnomes to have a squirrel and defecation based swear lexicon.

He hauled Tate back to the house and was disappointed but not surprised to find that Fiddleford was awake once more, blearily staring into a cup of coffee like it held the secrets to the universe. Ford set Tate down and the kid immediately scrambled into his pa's lap, chattering away about the things he'd learned about nature. Fidds looked over the top of his son's head, mouthing a silent “thank you” at his best friend.

Ford shrugged, as if to say “what else are friends for?” but out loud he said, “I need to take a look at this sample before it gets too dried out. You two know where to find me if you need anything.” He headed toward his study, pausing on his way past to ruffle Tate's hair. With a brief hesitation, he reaches out and rests a hand on Fidds' shoulder. For once the man did not flinch away, merely leaned into the touch as Ford squeezed affectionately.

 _Progress,_ thought Ford as he settled down at his workbench and then he let himself become consumed by analysis.

Hours later he is brought abruptly out of his researcher's fugue by screaming in the kitchen.

Ford pushes his chair back with a clatter and sprints down the hall to find Fiddleford screeching a string of profanity out on the back porch, tugging on his boots with far more force than necessary. Tate is nowhere to be seen and Ford feels anxiety claw its way up his spine to settle buzzing behind his eyes.

“What's happened? Where's Tate?” Ford looks around the open yard for answers but the only thing he sees is movement out in the trees.

“A bunch a fuckin' little bearded bastards came outta the woods and done snatched my boy. Dinna know teeny feet could move that fast but when I'm through with them they ain't gonna be movin' much longer.” Fiddleford's voice comes out a furious snarl and Ford takes an involuntary step backwards.

“Little bearded men... with red pointy hats?” Ford hopes for one split second that he's wrong, but Fidds nods and he feels the anxiety melt away into a cold rage.

“I don't know if gnomes have necks under their beards, but I am going to find out and then I am going to wring a few,” he grits out from between clenched teeth. He reaches back inside and grabs two heavy walking sticks from where they rest by the door. “Come on, I know where the little fuckers live.”

The pair stride through the woods without speaking, the only sound the heavy crunch of their feet in the undergrowth. Ford can feel the rage rolling off his best friend, made all the more concerning by being the only emotion he's sensed from the man since he showed up on Ford's doorstep. His own rage sits like ice in his chest, cold flames licking up the sides of his face and stinging his eyes.

It's not a particularly long walk to the gnome village, but its surrounded by difficult terrain that makes the going slow and increasingly frustrating. Bramble thickets and hanging ivy are beat aside with heavy walking sticks, sweat beading on Ford's brow in the summer heat that somehow manages to exist even in the shady depths of the forest.

Thirty minutes into their trek, Fidd comes to a sudden halt. He bends over, hands braced on his knees as he sucks in ragged breaths that punch back out in strangled sobs. Alarmed, Ford puts a hand on Fidds shoulder in what he hopes is a comforting manner.

“I... I promised Em I'd look after him.” Fidds says, anger shaking his voice. “I turned my back for two seconds to grab a glass of water and some fuckin' _gnomes_ snatch him. I can't even raise one child right I...” His voice catches and he leans into Ford's touch. “What if we can't get him back, what am I gonna tell Em?”

Ford chews his lip for a moment. He's never been good at comfort, but he slides his hand until he's got his arm wrapped around Fidds' shoulder, the man pulled solidly into his side. “Gnomes might be violent little bastards but I doubt they would hurt Tate. And we _will_ get him back, even if I have to kill every gnome in the forest to do it.”

There's a wet laugh from the vicinity of his shoulder. “You'd do that for me, Stanferd? I know you don't really like the business of killin'...”

“Just because I prefer live specimens or ones that have expired from natural causes doesn't mean I am adverse to defending my loved ones.” Ford says firmly, squeezing Fidds in a one-armed hug. He's never liked hunting or unnecessary killing, but he knows in this moment that he would follow through on his threat if he had to. “Come on, we don't have much farther to go.”

They step through the trees into the gnome's clearing together, Fidds holding on to Ford's arm for moral support as much as physical support. They haven't been making much of an effort to keep quiet but the gnomes are so focused on something in the middle of the clearing that it takes them a solid few seconds to realize there are humans in their midst.

One of the bearded creatures looks up, eyes widening into startled saucers. Ford sees the _oh shit_ ripple through the gathering before a squeaky voice screams “SCATTER” and the crowd explodes in every direction.

“Oh no you don't,” yells Fiddleford, shaking free of Ford's arm. “Get back here you little varmints!” He twirls his walking stick like a wizard's staff in DD&MD before swinging out and stopping a handful of gnomes in their path.

As one the tiny bearded men turn and look at Fidds, eyes unblinking. Ford finds it highly unsettling, and bites back a whimper of genuine fear as they open their mouths to screech, revealing razor sharp pointed teeth.

“Fidds I think we may have...”

“Can it, Ford. If you aren't gonna help me punt these good-for-nothing assholes into next Tuesday, make yourself useful and _find my son._ ” He doesn't look back at his friend, but Ford doesn't need to see his face to know there is an uncharacteristic glare painted across it.

“Right. Well. Yell if you need me.” Ford turns his attention back to the clearing, where more gnomes are attempting to hide whatever business they had been about before the humans arrived. He stalks over, batting the growling things away with his walking stick. He really, _really_ hates gnomes, he decides as he reaches down and plucks one off of his pants-leg. They keep coming, but eventually he manages to wade through the wave of little bearded men to the center of the clearing.

In the middle of the gnome swarm he finds his godson, sitting pouting with arms and legs crossed and a half-assembled gnome outfit pulled over his regular clothes. The iconic red hat sits crookedly over his hair and as Ford approaches it slides off onto the ground. An elderly gnome is trying (unsuccessfully) to stick a beard onto the child's face, but this is made difficult by the fact he is not using any glue and also Tate is trying to bite his fingers.

Ford bends down and picks up the gnome by the scruff of the neck like a naughty kitten before lifting it to eye level. “What did I say about _staying away from me and mine?_ ” he asks, almost casually. The gnome babbles frantically but Ford ignores him. “Listen next time and maybe we won't need to do this the hard way.” With that he tosses the gnome over his shoulder and offers a hand to Tate. “Come on, spud. Let's get your pa calmed down and get out of here. I've had quite enough of gnomes.”

Tate looks at the offered hand and then up at Ford, lower lip wobbling. That's all the warning he gets before the toddler starts wailing and launches himself into Ford's arms. He can make out a few words, but mostly it's just sobbing babbles soaking into his sweater along with tears and snot. Ford tries not to grimace, sweaters can be washed after all, but its a near thing.

Across the clearing, Fiddleford punts another gnome, watching with grim satisfaction as it sails into the trees.

“You alright over there?” Ford calls as loudly as he dares over the head of a severely frightened child.

“Yeah.” Fidds says with a breathless pant. “Yeah I think I might be. Gosh golly, these little bastards sure are puntable.” He kicks viciously at the dirt one last time before turning around to see Tate cradled in Ford's arms. Something in his face softens at the sight and his whole body sags with relief. He holds out his own arms and Ford wordlessly hands Tate over. He's still sobbing but he turns right into his pa's neck and clings close, tiny arms holding on for dear life.

Fidds looks about ready to fall over himself so Ford gently takes the walking stick from him and holds out a hand. “Lets get home, Fidds. It'll be dark soon and there are worse things than gnomes in these woods.”

Fiddleford shudders, but takes Ford's hand and lets his friend guide him back to the research center.

\-----

Tate has been settled down for the night, cuts and bruises attended to and seeming very small on the big mattress. Ford assumes Fiddleford will soon follow, he usually does and especially given the events of the day Ford would not blame him for wanting to stick close to his son, but the man surprises him by padding down the hallway on stocking feet to drop exhausted onto the couch in the study. Ford7raises an eyebrow over the mushroom he's resumed examining, but Fidds only tilts his head back against the dark window behind him with a heavy sigh.

“Thank you,” he says after several long minutes, apropos of nothing. Ford must make some sort of confused noise because Fidds struggles upright and continues, knee bobbing in a familiar nervous way. “Thank you for helping me go after Tate this afternoon. I don't know what I'd do if I lost him.” He sniffs and Ford's gaze snaps up to meet damp eyes. “I know I've been moping around your house with no explanation but it means a lot ta me that ya let us stay here for the summer. I...” Fiddleford trails off, eyes darting towards the door and the dark hallway beyond.

Ford glances at his project and then sets it down on his desk. It can wait for a little while, he has a friendship to maintain. He gestures to the open space on the couch next to his friend. “May I?”

“Oh, a'course, Stanferd.” Fidds chuckles, though the laughter doesn't reach his eyes. “It's your couch.”

“I know but...” There are a million things Ford can say. _I know but you flinch every time I get close. I know but I don't want to make you uncomfortable. I know but I just want you to trust me._ He settles for a noncommittal shrug and sits down next to his friend, leaving a good foot of space between them. Just in case.

Fiddleford sits ramrod straight for a scant few seconds and then bonelessly slumps into Ford's side. His shoulders shake and for a moment Ford thinks he might be laughing. Then a wet gasp of air punches into the still room and Ford instinctively wraps his arm around his best friend's shoulders. For once, Fiddleford doesn't flinch away. He turns into Ford's shoulder and cries, great hiccuping sobs like the world is ending filling the small study. Ford feels his heart breaking for his friend, though he still has no idea what has happened to cause such a reaction.

Ford doesn't know how much time has passed when Fiddleford's sobs slowly abate. He digs in his pocket for a handkerchief, handing it over to Fidds without a word. His friend takes it, barely moving from where he's leaning on Ford's shoulder to blow his nose and dab at his eyes.

“Sorry,” Fidds whispers, voice horse from crying. “It... It's just been so long, Ford.” He rarely shortens Ford's name and if he wasn't already afraid for his friend that alone would cause the curling knot of unease settling in Ford's stomach. Fidds sniffs again, pulling his knees up to curl even closer into his friend's side. “It's been so long since... since... gol'dangit why is this so hard to talk about?” The swear bursts out of Fidds' mouth, frustration tensing his body.

“You don't have to explain yourself,” says Ford, swallowing against all the concern he feels rising. “I'm just glad you trust me. I was starting to think I'd misstepped somewhere along the way.”

Fidds pushes back to look at Ford with an incredulous expression plastered across his face. “Misstep... no, no... Ford you didn't do anything.” His knee is back to it's staccato rhythm and his hands are twitching to start hamboning. He sighs instead and runs nervous fingers through his hair, looking anywhere but Ford's eyes. “I should probably tell ya why I dragged my sorry carcass up here... Em wants another kid but I don't think I can keep goin' much longer. It's been so long since I been touched without any sorta 'expectations'. When you reached out this afternoon... Ford you could have knocked me over with a feather and I would have thanked you for it. I... fuck I nearly lost my kid today. I... ”

His face _twists_ , tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. “Today was terrifying in so many ways. I love Tate with all my heart, Ford, I do. That lil' tater tot is my whole world, but I don't think I can sell my sanity to make another one. Em means well but she keeps pressin' and one of these days I'm gonna say 'yes' just to get her off my back. I came up here because I ran out of excuses.” Another wet sob pushes it's way past Fidds lips. “I don't have it in me to fuck my own wife, Ford, don't think I ever really did. There's somethin' broken in me and I can fix a 200 ton metal behemoth but _I can't fix this._ ”

Ford feels the world rearranging itself around him. He'd thought he was the only one he knew that felt like this but... well, this isn't about him right now. He wraps his arms around his friend and pulls him close, pressing a gentle kiss against the top of Fidds' head.

“You aren't alone in this,” says Ford, resting his chin where he'd just kissed, feeling Fidds' shoulder shake as the tears return. “Thank you for trusting me.”

He holds his friend close into the wee hours of the morning before they both stumble to their own beds. Fidds starts snoring as soon as he hits the pillows, body exhausted from the force of his emotions, but Ford lays awake far into the rising daylight. He swallows back the guilt rising in his gut along with the hope flickering just inside his ribcage. Fidds needs a friend, that is all.

\-----

After that tearful conversation, the pair return to a more normal routine. While he's not nearly as touchy as he'd been in college, Fiddleford returns to his habit of kissing the top of Ford's head as he passes whatever work-space the scientist is currently hunched over. Now that Fidds no longer flinches away from his hands, Ford returns to friendly squeezes of the shoulder and the occasional lingering hug with his chin tucked into his friend's neck.

Ford is encouraged to find Fiddleford returning to the projects he brought with him. Sometimes he wanders into the workroom late at night and finds his friend huddled over a pile of electronics and it's like they never left their dorm. Slowly, the metallic smell of welding and grease fills the room.

Ford never realized how much like home that distinctive scent seemed.

They spend long hours after Tate has gone to bed just talking, pressed shoulder to shoulder on the worn study couch. The pair are more alike then they ever thought when they were in college, Fiddleford just played the part of a functional member of society a little better.

Desired a socially acceptable nuclear family just a little harder.

“I didn't know what I didn't want until I was already up to my eyeballs in it,” says Fiddleford one evening. The two scientists have migrated to the back porch with a mason jar of moonshine Fidds had produced from... somewhere. Probably best not to think about the origins.

“I love Em with all my heart and I am grateful that Tate exists... but if I never have to have sex again it'll be too soon.” Fidds takes a sip of the moonshine and passes the jar to Ford, who eyes it with a healthy amount of fear. The stuff could probably strip paint. He takes his own sip anyway, ignoring the unholy burning sensation as it slides down his throat.

“I've never felt the need,” he says, alcohol loosening his tongue a little more than he'd intended but he cannot find it within himself to regret the words. He can feel the flush rising in his face, but there's an equal chance it's the alcohol and not the embarrassment. “I mean, the occasional orgasm is fine, healthy even but... the idea of undertaking that with another person is distasteful at best.” Ford screws up his face in a grimace. “Seems like a waste of time and energy when a quick jerk in the shower is all one really needs to be efficient.”

Fidds snorts, then coughs as moonshine goes straight up his nose. “Well, when you put it that way it sounds so clinical.” he says after he's managed to get his breathing under control. He stares off across the yard, a half-smile quirked across his face. “It's nice to take care of a partner, watch them fall apart under your hands... I just don't want to be the one falling apart. Can't be.”

He takes another swig of the moonshine and Ford distantly wonders how much a serving size really is. Fidds' nose and cheeks are flushed, eyes glassy, whole body lit by the glow of the summer moon. Ford's fingers itch to draw but instead he swipes the jar back. This sip doesn't burn as much going down, just adds to the fuzzy atmosphere.

“It's not like I didn't try!” Fidds hands wave in the air, voice taking on a distressed tone. “I wanted Tate, god damn it. I never told Em that I had to pop fuckin' pills just to get it up long enough to conceive him. But I ran out and I don't ever wanna take them again, I hated how they made me feel.” He shudders and leans hard against Ford's shoulder. “I thought I loved her enough to get through this, but I am dreading going home.”

Ford glances down at the half-empty jar in his hand before sliding it just out of reach by the porch rail. He slings an arm around his friend and pulls him tight into lopsided hug, turning to press a kiss into his hair. “I know you love them, Fidds. You've got so much affection in that big hillbilly heart of yours its a wonder you don't detonate. I'm just sorry you're feeling like this I wish I could... What is it?” Ford trails off as Fiddleford pushes away, drinking in his face with glazed over eyes.

“Nothin',” says Fidds, hands trembling on Ford's shoulders. “I only...” His hands slip and for a moment Ford thinks his best friend is going to wrap his arms around him in a hug, which he does... but this time, instead of tucking his face into the crook of Ford's neck, warm chapped lips are settling against his own as if they'd always belonged there.

Ford feels a single moment of surprised, incandescent bliss before reality starts to crack through. He gently, oh so gently, pushes Fidds away from him. “We can't do this. Think about Em.” He ignores the way his lips are tingling, the way he wants to stroke his thumb over Fidds' cheekbones. “I don't want to come between you two.”

Fidds laughs, but it is a bitter thing. “Please, Stanferd,” he tries to sound firm but it comes out pleading. “Please let me have this. I know you won't take more than I can give, I just want to be held. Can you please...”

Ford never was able to say no to the tear-filled eyes of his best friend. Cradling Fidds' face in his hands, he leans back in.

In the morning, neither of them remembers. Once they get past the hangover they laugh about the half-drunk jar of moonshine they left on the porch. They don't wonder that they found themselves curled around each other in the same bed. It had happened often enough in college to be innocent, how could it not be the same now?

Neither of them remembers until Ford is looking in the mirror to shave and sees the purpling mark just under where his collar rests. The night before comes flooding back in a tidal wave of shame and horror. They hadn't done anything beyond wrapping their arms around each other and letting their mouths wander but... Ford has distinct memories of gasping into the still night air as Fidds sucked this particular mark into his neck. He can't quite remember whose idea it was but he swallows hard against the rising nausea of knowing that somewhere Emma-may is ignorant.

Ford waits all day for Fiddleford to broach the topic. Surely, if he remembers Fidds must also remember. But the subject never comes up. Fidds greets him with a smile and his ever-present kiss to the top of his head. There is no hint of remembrance in his eyes, no trace of the betrayal he would surely be feeling if he knew...

Ford decides that maybe it's better if Fidds doesn't remember. Or maybe he's just decided to forget because it was a mistake.

He's not sure which thought is worse.

\-----

Everything comes crashing down around them halfway through the summer.

Ford had spent most of the day down by the lake, bemoaning his existence to one very amused siren. A siren who thought the entire ordeal rivaled even the most sordid of romance novels. A siren who did not deserve the title of second-best friend despite how much they wanted it.

“You were so concerned about Fiddleford's wife last month, why are you so flippant now?” Ford had seethed, anger hot behind his eyes. “I've betrayed Em's trust, Fidds' too even if he doesn't remember it.”

Kal had paused long enough in their gloating to fix Ford with a rather unsettling unblinking stare. “Those two things are completely different,” they said at last. “I can be amused at your... very human monogamy predicament and still be concerned about your friend's choice in wife.” They shrugged. “If you're that concerned, steal him away.”

“I can't keep him from his family.” Ford slumped back against the rock. “I might feel something for him that I wasn't expecting but... I'm not sure what it is and he has responsibilities. He can stay up here as long as he likes, but eventually Em is going to send out a search party. At the very least she is going to want her son back.”

Kal had hummed, looking out across the water. “Then be very careful, my friend. Don't break your own heart.”

Later, Ford wishes he had listened.

It starts like this: Ford gets home from the lake and Fiddleford stands in front of the kitchen counter, making something that smells divine. They murmur greetings at each other and Ford stands a little closer than normal as he steps up to help peel potatoes. He fights the blush that rises in his cheeks as Fidds grins up at him and bumps their hips together.

They spend the evening laughing together like they did in college, swapping stories as they work together to get Tate settled into bed. They laugh even as they try to make their way quietly down the hall to the study, collapsing side by side on the couch in a fit of giggles that seems out of place but neither of them can really stop. They pause for a brief, charged second and then...

It ends like this: Ford is never sure who moved first. He only knows that one moment they were giggling over nothing, wiping tears from their eyes, and then the next his arms are full of lanky best friend. Their lips slide together for mere fractions of a moment and then Fiddleford is flinging himself backward, scrambling away from Ford like he's been burned.

Fidds runs his hand through his hair, distressed. “Fuck, what am I doing. What... why does this feel familiar... why...”

Their eyes meet and Ford feels his heart fracture as Fidds' gaze grows cold. When he speaks his normally smooth drawl is clipped and devoid of warmth.

“Why didn't you tell me.”

Ford blinks, confused, lips still tingling. “Tell you what?”

“How many times has this happened?” Fidds' voice is tight and Ford realizes he's trying not to shout and wake up Tate. “Why am I remembering... why do I remember this? Why is this so familiar?”

“Once.” Ford swallows hard. “It happened once. We were really drunk, Fidds. I'd... I'd hoped you had forgotten. I tried to!” He feels his voice crack, can see himself losing his friend with every word.

Something flickers in the depths of Fidds eyes, something that very much resembles regret before he draws himself up to his full height. “Well. I remember now. This was a bad idea. I never shoulda come up here. Not when... well it doesn't matter now.” Ford watches him swallow hard and wrench his gaze away. “This was a mistake. I need ta go home. To my wife. Hopefully she'll forgive me.”

He turns without another word and walks out. Ford doesn't move from the couch for a very long time.

Fiddleford and Tate leave the following sunny summer morning. Tate cries to say goodbye to his godfather, but Fidds never says a word, only packs his bags in silence. He takes his son's hand and walks to the bus stop, not once looking back. Ford stands alone on his porch, staring sightlessly at the treeline long after they have disappeared down the road.

A week later, he dreams of his muse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. This was a really difficult chapter to write and balance between bonding moments and heartbreak. I'm not 100% happy with it but at some point you have to stop tweaking the text and post it.
> 
> As usual, comments and my [tumblr](http://3hobbitsinatrenchcoat.tumblr.com) are open for yelling!


	4. DON'T GET DISTRACTED, FORDSY

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lot can happen in two years. New discoveries, new friends... the same aching loneliness consuming every unassigned hour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Sorry it's been so many months since the last update. I... really struggled with this chapter because I hate writing Bill Fucking Cipher with the burning passion of a thousand suns. But it's here.
> 
> You may have noticed that the chapter max number has changed to a question mark. When I started writing this I thought it was going to be three chapters, then four, then five. I have come to the uncomfortable realization that I will be done... when I'm done. I have a lot to say about these old nerds apparently.
> 
> Enjoy!

He doesn't see Fiddleford for two long years.

Granted, those two long years are full of endless discoveries and breakthroughs and a beautiful blossoming friendship. Bill is invaluable as a research partner, dry wit and staggering intelligence quickly making him Ford’s closest companion.

He starts taking more and more cues from Bill over the passing months, all steps toward his friend’s grand plan to explore the wonders of the multiverse. Ford can barely contain his excitement at the thought that his own earth isn’t alone, that there are other grand and wonderful realities out there waiting to be explored.

Kal isn’t so sure.

“Is everything alright with your research, Ford? I haven’t seen you in a while.” They say one afternoon as the two lounge together on their usual outcropping. Ford’s been off doing some finicky things to prepare for an excursion to… something. Bill won’t tell him what it is yet. It’s apparently a surprise. But it’s nice to hang out with a friend on a rare day off.

At Bill’s request, Ford hasn’t told the siren about his mentor. It was a curious request, but Bill had been straightforward enough that “KAL WON’T HAVE THE CONTEXT TO UNDERSTAND THE DEPTH OF OUR PARTNERSHIP, FORDSY.” Which, ok. Ford couldn’t argue with that. Though there are a lot of weird and wonderful things in Gravity Falls, they can all be seen (with the exception of the invisible wizard, but he at least leaves traces of himself in reality).

Bill is only in Ford’s head and the only proof he has that he’s not finally cracking under the pressure of his PhDs is that there is no way he could have discovered some of his research without a little help from a friend.

All Ford can say in response without giving his friend away is, “Everything is going quite well! I have an expedition to the far side of the county planed next week, which should help solidify some of my theories!”

Kal rolls from their back to their stomach and leans hard on their elbows, staring hard at Ford. He finds that the sharp expression on his old friend’s face is… unsettling at best. “Well for you, maybe. News travels fast and I…” Kal chews their lip, almost nervously. “Do you remember that conversation about trust that we had early on? About you being a scientist, but me trusting you to do the right thing?”

Ford’s stomach drops but he can’t pinpoint why. “Yes, I remember,” he says slowly, carefully, trying to figure out where this is going. “Have I done something…”

“You’re very lucky gnomes are considered a pest creature,” Kal says flatly. “And that you only kept him for a day. I know you well enough to know that you meant no harm, but you can’t just kidnap sentient creatures.”

Ford remembers now, he’d caught a gnome rooting through his garbage (again) and at Bill’s urging had kept him for a little while for some tests. Cognitive reasoning and the like. Basics. He’d felt a little bad about it but… Bill had said it was all in the name of furthering his theory and a little discomfort couldn’t be helped.

He’d even paid the grimy little bastard in the last cookie from his pantry. Ford says as much to Kal, bristling at the implication that he’s stepped over some moral line.

Kal hums, eyes softening but the frown remains. “It’s still not a good look, Ford,” they say gently. “I understand but don’t be surprised if it becomes harder for you to interact with the others. Not all of them are as forgiving.” They chuckle and glance off towards the woods. “Though… the gnomes probably already forgot.”

Ford sighs with relief as the mood lifts and chuckles as well. “Yes, well. My tests were not very encouraging. How they can have such a complex society and pilot large versions of themselves and yet… cannot comprehend simple puzzles is simply astounding.”

“What did you expect from a creature that bathes in live squirrels,” drawls Kal and they both shudder before changing the topic entirely to other things.

Ford should have taken Kal’s words for the warning of things to come, but he doesn’t.

The future was bright and full of promise, after all.

\-----

Waking up from one of Bill’s dreams is always a bit of a chore. Ford’s eyes are always a little too dry and his body doesn’t feel like he got quiet enough rest… most likely a side effect of playing one too many games of chess and talking about grand plans for the future. Usually, he sleeps in just a tiny bit on those mornings, something Fiddleford would have thought completely out of character.

But Fiddleford isn’t here and there are things in the woods that are dangerous when you haven’t slept.

Ford will _not_ be trapped by a will-o-wisp again. Frankly, that was embarrassing and he’s glad Boyish Dan had wandered through that section of forest on his way to logging camp and helped him out of the narrow rotted hole where a tree-trunk used to be.

Just another reason to stay inside and work on improving his lab-space.

And improve it he has. Bill has made numerous suggestions to “SPRUCE UP THE OL’ BATCAVE” ranging from reinforcing the walls to using bits from the millennia-old alien craft buried mere inches below the feet of the townsfolk. An alien craft! That had been an exciting find for sure, guided by his muse and mentor to the hatch and descending into the depths of previously unimaginable technology.

Honestly, it’s a little concerning at first how ready he is to get what he needs and get out of the spaceship. Even a few years ago he would have been making plans to spend days, weeks even, in the cold metal halls, documenting everything he came across. Now he just wants to get in and get out anytime he has to fetch materials from the wreck, too excited by the prospects of the multiverse to concentrate on what is quite literally in his own backyard.

But back to the subject of dreams… waking up from Bill’s dreams is always a bit of a chore, but today Ford springs out of bed with renewed vigor and an almost fevered energy, reaching for his journal even as he’s shoving his feet into waiting boots. Last night he and Bill had had a breakthrough, multidimensional ideas all coming together to culminate in a project so starkly beautiful Ford might actually cry if he could complete it.

He needs to make blueprints and charts and scale models and lists of materials… he feels possessed with the spirit of science and there is nothing that can bring him down from that ultimate high.

“ _WHOA SLOW DOWN THERE, SIXER_ ,” says the little voice in the back of his mind that is sounding more like Bill with every passing day. He doesn’t think about when it used to sound like Stan. “ _WOULDN’T WANT YOU TO FALL DOWN THE STAIRS AND HURT YOURSELF ON THE FIRST DAY OF OUR BIG UNDERTAKING_.”

“No, I suppose that would be bad,” chuckles Ford to himself, forcing down the urge to take the stairs two at a time.

Bill doesn’t answer (after all, it was just his imagination running wild) but Ford thinks his friend would be pleased that he’s taking care of himself. “WHAT KIND OF MUSE AM I IF MY BRILLIANT MIND ENDS UP DEAD BEFORE THEIR DREAMS ARE REALIZED?” Bill had said once, when Ford had performed a risky experiment and ended up knocking himself out. Since then he’d tried to take care of himself but, well… science and safety are not so easily balanced.

But he can do little things to keep his stubborn human body happy. Nose in his journal, Ford heads to the kitchen for an apple. He thinks he might still have some in the basket by the door. Feet on autopilot he pads around the table and chairs, hand reaching out to grab an apple. Before he really registers what’s happened, the back of his hand brushes something and there’s a soft flutter and sigh of paper falling to the ground, loud in the empty room. Ford shuts his journal with a muttered curse, looking to see what he knocked over.

He freezes when he realizes the floor is littered with colorful postcards, each one covered in Fiddleford’s familiar scrawl. “ _YOU DON’T HAVE TIME FOR THIS,_ ” hisses the voice in his head. “ _LEAVE THEM AND DEAL WITH IT LATER._ ”

Ford doesn’t. Ford _can’t._ He kneels down on his kitchen floor and gathers up the postcards one by one, thanking Tesla that there are dates to put them back into order. Cards from vacations and conferences and the few places Fiddleford has lived pile up in his hands until he is holding a record of his correspondence nearly two inches thick. A weekly postcard for nearly 6 years… then nearly nothing. Most of the cards now are addressed from Tate, perfunctory birthday and holiday notes. He can count the cards from the last two years on one hand.

His chest aches as he hauls himself back to his feet and carefully sets the postcards back on the counter.

He tells himself it’s just from sitting on the cold kitchen floor.

He’s lying.

\-----

The scientific high still drives him through the rest of the day, but his thoughts are tinged with a melancholy he can’t bring himself to shake. How long has it been since he spoke to Fiddleford? How long has it been since he spoke with anyone besides Kal and Bill?

How long has it been since he interacted with another human for longer than the span of time it takes to buy his monthly groceries?

“YOU’RE TOO WORRIED ABOUT PEOPLE WHO DON’T GIVE A FUCK ABOUT YOU,” says Bill that evening, as Ford expresses these thoughts. Physically he’s snug and warm under a quilt from his ma, but mentally he’s playing chess with his muse in the candlelit living room of his own mindscape. Bill’s even made a pot of tea and manifested a mouth to drink it with, so he really must be in a good mood.

Ford nudges his pawn forward with a frown. “I’m sure it’s not like that. After all, I’m the one that made Fiddleford uncomfortable. He’s well within his rights to not want to talk to me.”

“OH IT’S NOT JUST HIM.” Bill waves one stubby hand in the air and steals the pawn off the board, tossing it into his mouth like candy. Ford winces at the crunch, but it’s not like they’re real chess pieces. They’ll regenerate eventually. “NO ONE IN THIS TOWN APPRECIATES YOUR GENIUS. EVEN THOSE IDIOTS ON THE GRANT BOARD CAN’T FULLY COMPREHEND THE BEAUTY OF YOUR MIND.”

Ford flushes at the praise. “Really, Bill, no need to flatter me. We both know the only reason the grant board doesn’t feel threatened by me is that I’m out here in the sticks with no designs on their cushy professorial seats.” He slides another pawn forward and is relieved when Bill doesn’t eat this one. “I’m not particularly worried about the grant board anyway. I’m more concerned that I’ve gone weeks without seeing another human. I’d count Kal but… they eat raw fish and don’t understand the appeal of electricity.”

He chuckles and Bill narrows his eye in his direction before sniffing disdainfully. “YOU’VE GOT ME, SIXER. DO YOU REALLY NEED ANY OTHER DISTRACTIONS?”

“I suppose not… hey, if you eat all the pieces I’ll have to imagine another board and we’ll have to start over.” Ford reaches over and pulls the rook out of Bill’s hand. The muse looks briefly disappointed, then rolls his eye and waves a hand in the air, conjuring a martini of… something? Ford thinks he sees an eyeball but he blinks and no. It’s just an ordinary olive.

“I WON’T EAT THE PIECES IF YOU’LL STOP WORRYING ABOUT WHAT THESE RURAL SCHMUCKS THINK ABOUT YOUR GROCERY HABITS,” says Bill, sipping at his martini and floating the pot of tea in Ford’s direction. “DRINK THIS BEFORE IT GETS COLD AND IF YOU BEAT ME AT THIS ROUND I’LL GIVE YOU A FACT ABOUT ONE OF THE DIMENSIONS YOU’LL BE SEEING SOON.”

Ford can’t argue with that. He and Bill play quietly the rest of the night only speaking when they lose: Bill giving over tidbits about other dimensions and Ford talking about growing up in Glass Shard. He doesn’t mention Stan.

\-----

It swiftly becomes abundantly clear that Ford has only a fraction of the mechanical talent needed to build the multidimensional gateway.

He’s drawn up the plans across all three of his journals, double checked the schematics what seems like fifty times, and he’s still no closer to assembly than he was the day he started. With a savage curse, he flings his wrench at the wall, listening to the dull _clank thud_ of metal hitting stone then dirt.

“ _Y_ _ou_ _need a partner, poindexter,”_ says the voice in his head, sounding like Stan for the first time in months. _“You never did work well alone.”_

“Shut up,” Ford mutters to himself, collecting his scattered tools and storming out of the cavernous lab space. “I’ve been alone for nearly a decade, how hard can it be to build one trans-dimensional gateway by myself?”

If Stan were really here he’d probably shrug and say something like, “Looks hard as shit, bro. Might think about asking for help.” But Stan isn’t here, hasn’t been here in a long time. Just thinking about him is giving Ford a headache.

“You’re losing your mind, Ford,” he mutters to himself, stomping through his research center with no real thoughts other than maybe he needs some fresh air.

He doesn’t really pay attention to where his feet are taking him until he’s standing on the rocky outcropping of Avyysdonti, sipping Tennessee whiskey from a flask he’d stuck in his pocket in a fit of lonely melancholy the week before. As if from a great distance, he notices that it’s dawn. He must have worked all through the night… how many days has it been since he left the basement?

Ford grimaces to himself and takes a larger swig from the flask. For efficiency’s sake, he’s glad he switched over to custom-blended nutrient bars, but they do have the unintended side effect of eliminating timekeeping via regular meals. He eats when he’s hungry (or when his body is shaking hard enough that he wonders when the last time he ate was), he sleeps when he’s tired (or when he passes out draped over his blueprints, only to wake long enough to drag himself to bed, usually), and he gets the necessary ingredients to replenish his stock of nutrients whenever he can see the bottom of the surplus ammo can in the corner of his basement lab.

He’s doing fine. His mother would be… less than thrilled, but he’s doing fine.

“Pebble for your thoughts, science-man?” says a voice right next to his ear and he about jumps out of his skin. Kal snickers and backs away to flop onto the cool stone. “You’re out here mighty early. Is everything ok?”

Ford sighs and tucks the half-empty flask back into his pocket, for once devoid of journals and pens. “Yes. Everything’s fine. I’ve been caught up in a project and I… just needed some air.”

Bill will probably chastise him later for abandoning their creation, but Ford’s only human. He needs to take the occasional break. So why does he feel so guilty?

Kal hums, looking out at the lake, glinting gold under the dawning summer light. “Aren’t humans usually asleep right now? Not… drinking paint thinner and shivering on a rocky outcropping?”

“If you haven’t noticed, I’m not a normal human,” Ford says petulantly, drawing his knees up under his chin and wrapping his arms around his legs. “And it’s not paint thinner. It’s a very nice whiskey Fiddleford gave me several years ago when I got my second PhD.”

Ford realizes that’s the wrong thing to say as soon as it comes out of his mouth, but he can’t take it back. The words hang heavy in the air as Kal looks at him with a calculating glint in their eyes.

“Ah, so this is about Fiddleford. I haven’t heard you talk about him in a while.”

 _There’s a very good reason for that,_ thinks Ford petulantly. He hasn’t told Kal the circumstances of Fidds’ departure. He can’t bring himself to do it because his thoughts are still full of shame and regret and might-have-beens. He merely told Kal that Fidds had left, and then tried to keep him out of conversation.

Kal’s too polite to bring it up, but they’re a siren. They know when there’s something amiss, or at least Kal claims that’s how they work. It’s hard to prove that kind of thing.

“There hasn’t been much to talk about,” Ford says with a shrug that he hopes is nonchalant. “He’s got his projects and family down in Palo Alto, and I have my projects and lab up here. It’s… better this way.” He shakes his head and avoids making eye contact with his friend. “Besides, this actually isn’t about Fiddleford. This is about my apparent mechanical incompetence. I have a rather large current project and I am fully regretting not taking a few more classes in electronics and assembly. I just had to go and treat myself my last semester! Ugh!”

He sits down hard on the rock and flops backward to stare at the lightening sky. Beside him, Kal snorts with barely contained laughter. “Sorry I can’t help you. We sirens wouldn’t know what to do with electricity.”

“I don’t need help,” Ford grits his teeth against how false the words ring. “I just need to apply myself. I have 12 PhDs, how hard can a little wiring really be? In any case I can’t share my m… my patron’s vision with just _anyone._ ” He nearly slips up and admits to his muse’s existence, but he thinks “patron” is a nice save. He bites back a helpless chuckle. Bill probably would get a kick out of being some warlock’s patron, being compared to some mighty deity. He’ll have to remember that for later.

“Then share it with someone you trust,” says Kal, as if that’s the simplest thing in the world.

Ford groans and turns his head to look at his friend. “That isn’t a very long list. It’s probably only three, no... maybe four… it’s only four beings long and of those four…” He rubs wearily at his face. Kal is right, as usual. “Of those four only one of them has the mechanical experience to pull this off.”

Kal looks smug. “It’s Fiddleford, isn’t it?”

“No need to be insufferable about it,” Ford says with a grimace. “It makes you sound like… nevermind. The point is I’m not sure he’d come if I asked. It was his choice to leave.”

“You won’t know if you don’t ask, that’s how this works.” Kal rolls their eyes. “I can’t make you call him but you should probably call him. I’m not gonna press though, regardless of the outcome I’ll probably suffer.” Their tone comes across morose and self pitying. “We both know that no matter what you’ll come crying to me about it.”

Ford squawks indignantly at them and they laugh, mood lightening. The rest of the morning they talk about nothing of importance at all and when Ford leaves around lunchtime, he feels a bit more sure of himself.

Maybe he’ll give Fiddleford a call after all.

\-----

“WHAT PART OF ‘A SINGLE BRILLIANT MIND’ WAS HARD FOR YOU TO UNDERSTAND, BRAINIAC?”

Bill is furious, pacing back and forth in the mindscape, literal steam pouring off his triangular body. It’s vaguely terrifying, but it’s not like his muse can actually do anything. But Ford respects Bill, wants him to feel honored, so this anger turned suddenly towards him is unwelcome at best.

“I told you, Bill,” he says carefully, keeping his voice even and calm. It’s vaguely reminiscent of speaking with his father, but Bill doesn’t deserve that unflattering comparison. “I don’t have the kind of mechanical knowledge to do this on my own. A little help from Fiddleford could cut the production time in half at least.”

“ISN’T THIS THE SAME FIDDLEFORD WHO ABANDONED YOU FOR HIS WIFE? THE REASON YOU THREW YOURSELF SO HARD INTO THIS PROJECT IN THE FIRST PLACE?” Bill spins on his heel in mid-air and levels Ford with his single narrowed eye. “LETS FACE IT, FORDSY. THE ONLY OTHER BEING YOU NEED TO FINISH THIS PROJECT IS ME.”

Ford chewed his lip, eyes darting away from Bill, feeling his face flush with embarrassment. He hadn’t wanted to touch on this, but his muse was leaving him no choice. “Aside from the limitations in my knowledge… there are parts to this machine that need smaller hands. Normal five-fingered hands. Your hands would be perfect for this but… you exist only in the mindscape. So, I need someone with the appropriate mechanical background to not destroy all our hard work who I also trust and can physically do the work we need done.”

The steam abruptly stops rolling off of Bill’s body. “WELL YOU COULD HAVE LEAD WITH THAT. I’D PROBABLY MAKE A DIFFERENT CHOICE THAN CALLING IN A BUDDY, BUT YOU DO YOU. THOUGH IF YOU’D JUST TOLD ME THIS WHEN WE GOT STARTED WE COULD HAVE MODIFIED THE BLUEPRINTS OR I COULD HAVE PROVIDED SOMEONE.” He pauses and Ford can’t explain why... but the considering gleam in Bill’s eye makes him uneasy.

“OF COURSE, THERE’S THE OTHER OBVIOUS SOLUTION BUT I HESITATE TO EVEN BRING IT UP.” Bill’s eye blinks back to normal and he shrugs quite eloquently for someone with no shoulders to speak of. “WE CAN REVISIT THAT IF YOUR PHONE CALL FAILS.”

Ford sags with relief. He’s not sure why he craves the approval of his muse, but he does. He desires the closeness they have been cultivating the past several years, Bill becoming both an inspiration and a dear friend. He hates to see their relationship strained over such a small matter.

It’s nice to know Bill cares enough to have valid concerns. And respects him enough to go along with calling Fiddleford anyway.

“Thank you,” he says simply, quirking a small smile in his muse’s direction. “If it makes you feel any better, I have no intention of revealing your existence to him.”

“I’D EXPECT NOTHING LESS.” Bill sniffs and waves a hand in the air, summoning the now-routine chessboard. “WHAT DO YOU SAY TO ONE MORE GAME BEFORE YOU HAVE TO HILLBILLY-PROOF THE LAB?”

That’s uncharacteristically uncharitable of Bill, thinks Ford, but he brushes it off. The muse is still probably feeling a little miffed about having to share Ford’s previously undivided attention.

An extra set of hands and an accelerated time-table will make Bill happier in the long run. Ford has a good feeling about this.

\-----

Many years later, standing in a basement that hasn’t been his for a while, Ford will give two children the sanitized version of the phonecall he makes the next day. Of course Fiddleford accepted, of course he came to work with Ford… but it wasn’t as cut and dry as he made it seem to be.

For instance, he left out the part where he woke up nervous to the point of vague nausea. He spent his morning sorting through his latest grant proposal rather than pick up the phone and call his best friend.

After the falling out they’d had… could he really claim Fiddleford as a friend? Much less a best friend?

Future Ford also simplified the conversation, out of equal parts respect of Fiddleford’s privacy and… some emotion he couldn’t quite name.

After dithering about and wasting most of the day, Ford made himself the strongest cup of coffee he could, splashed a bit of whiskey in for good measure, and called the number scrawled on one of the many many postcards.

“Fiddleford Computermajigs, Fiddleford speaking.”

Fidds sounds the same as he always has, maybe a little more tired, maybe a little more professional, but his accent still spreads heavy across his words and Ford can’t help the fond smile that quirks at the corners of his mouth.

“Glad to hear you’re making a name for yourself, old friend,” says Ford instead of trying to force any sort of formality. He doesn’t think he imagines the sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line. Neither does he imagine the slap of bare feet hitting concrete as Fiddleford sits up straight.

There’s a long silence and then Fiddleford says, quiet and more hopeful than Ford had dreamed he would sound, “Stanferd, is that you?”

Some tense anxiety Ford hadn’t even known he was harboring leaks out of him at the hopeful tone in his friend’s voice. He’d been half expecting the man to hang up on him.

“Yes, it’s me.” Ford can’t help the softness of his own tone. “How’s the computer business these days?”

Fidds snorts. “Lousy, but it’ll catch on soon. I can feel it in my bones.” There’s a long pause and the rustling of papers. “I get the feeling this isn’t a social call, you never were one for empty niceties.”

That’s… blunt. Fidds can always be counted on to call things like they are, Ford supposes. He thinks for a fraction of a moment he might have preferred cold anger than pure business but… it’s just the way things are. Even if they don’t make much sense.

“No, I wish it was but… it’s not purely a social call. I’m sorry.” He’s sorry for being all business and also other things he doesn’t want to put into words. For not reaching out sooner, for not apologizing earlier, for… well, everything.

“Nothin’ to be sorry for,” says Fidds and Ford can picture him rolling his eyes with a small smile. “We’ve both got phones, Stanferd. I could’a reached out months ago but I’m honestly a bit of a coward. I… well, it’s not important right now.” Ford wonders what his friend was about to say, why he would call himself a coward… but Fidds plows ahead. “What’s going on that has you facing your aversion to recordable technology?”

Ford can’t help the snickering laugh that blooms into wheezing guffaws. “That was _one time_. And that phone was absolutely tapped, I saw the recording box myself.”

“Sure you did, you and every other tin-foil-hat conspiracy theorist on campus,” and just like that Fidds falls right back into easy conversation and Ford is glad for it. He’d thought maybe this would be awkward and stilted… and it’s neither of those things. The business-like demeanor from mere moments ago falls away and it’s like they never stopped talking.

All catching up aside, he explains (in as little detail as possible) his plans for his basement lab. Fidds sounds suitably impressed.

“You're tryin' to build a transuniversal polydimensional metavortex? That’s mathematically feasible but that’s more your wheelhouse than mine, what do ya need me for?” The distant sound of hamboning floats over the speakers and Ford sees Fidds in his minds-eye, phone cradled between his ear and shoulder, hands idly slapping at his bony knees.

“I hate to tear you away from your family but… this is frankly embarrassing, however...” Ford takes a deep breath. “I’ve come to the conclusion that perhaps you know more than me in the mechanical field. Theoretical physics are all fine and well until they become… slightly more than theoretical. I know that it’s short notice and you have to consult your family and I promise I’ll send you back as soon as the project is complete and I understand if you can’t…”

“Ford, stop.” Fidds cuts off his growing rambling. “I’ll be there in a few days, I just have some things to wrap up here.”

“… what?” Ford isn’t sure he heard Fidds correctly.

“I’ve… There’s a couple things I need to take care of and then I can come up. You don’t need to worry about…” He sighs heavily. “I can’t get into it right now. I’ll call you before I leave.”

Whatever Fidds is leaving unspoken is concerning but Ford isn’t going to press. He doesn’t think he has the right when he has secrets of his own. “Alright. See you in a few days, Fidds. Say hi to the tater tot for me, would you?”

“I can certainly try.” The dry laugh rings a warning bell in Ford’s mind but he can’t quite put his finger on exactly _why._ “Goodbye, Ford.”

The line goes dead, but not before Ford catches the click and whir of Fiddleford’s favored robotics in the background.

Not quite the computers the man claimed to be working on. Ford wonders what’s up but decides he won’t press, Fiddleford will tell him in his own time.

\-----

He spends the next few days frantically pacing and getting absolutely nothing done. He barely sleeps so he doesn’t even have the distraction of chess with Bill to prevent him from worrying about everything that could go wrong.

He’d left the guest room alone since the day Fidds left, so he spent a few hours dusting it and replacing the linens. After that though… there really wasn’t much left to do to prepare for his friend’s arrival. Maybe clear a bit of space for his personal project, maybe make sure to air out the dustier rooms… but the hardest part is waiting.

The day Fiddleford arrives dawns bright and clear and full of promise. Ford finds himself sitting out on the front porch, watching the sunrise with a mug of coffee clutched between nervous hands.

He’d gone to visit Kal the day before and the siren had laughed at his personal misfortune before assuring him that whatever happened he would turn out alright.

Ford hopes Kal is right as the sound of a car crunches up the drive towards his research station. It pulls into view and the sight of Fiddleford behind the wheel almost brings Ford to tears. He resists the urge to run towards his friend and instead hauls himself to his feet to lean on the railing and sip at his coffee.

“Hey there, Stanferd,” is the first thing out of Fidds’ mouth as he unfolds his lanky body from the driver’s seat. “You wanna help me haul my junk outta this contraption?”

“Of course, let me just finish this,” Ford takes another swig of his coffee so he can drink in the sight of his friend over the rim of his mug without being completely obvious.

Fiddleford is looking… healthy. He’s still more bone than muscle, but he’ll probably always be that way since his whole family is like that. The dark circles from before aren’t as prevalent, though Ford supposes two years is a long time. Maybe things changed for the better.

He doesn’t ask. He thinks it might be too soon to dig up old grievances.He’s simply happy that Fiddleford agreed to come up at all. Instead, he sets down his empty mug and bounds down the steps to help Fiddleford pull boxes and bags out of the trunk.

“You’ve got a lot of stuff, you sure you left anything at home?” Ford says teasingly as he sets a box of jumbled wires next to a plain duffle bag.

He doesn’t expect the way Fidds’ shoulders stiffen for a fraction of a second before he plasters the fakest smile Ford has ever seen across his face. “Nah, brought everything with me. You never know what could be useful.” The words come out jokingly, but Ford is hit with the absolute certainty that Fidds _did_ bring everything with him and he has no right to the reasons why.

“Well,” Ford says, and he thanks his muse that he doesn’t stumble over his own words. “If you forgot anything I have plenty of resources and there’s a few reliable shops in town. There’s also a fairly large junkyard if you need to dig for scrap!” Ford fondly remembers the regular scrap-hauls from college and judging from the twitch of Fidds’ lips he does as well.

“I’ll have to remember that,” he says, and reaches over to pull Ford into a hug. “I’ve missed ya, Stanferd.”

Ford freezes for just a moment before wrapping his own arms around his friend. “I’ve missed you, too. Lets get your things inside and I can show you where we’ll be working!”

Fiddleford’s face lights up as he pushes away. “I’m excited to see this fancy trans-dimensional thingamabobber!”

“It’s not much yet but between the two of us I’m sure we can work some magic!” He grabs one of Fidds’ many bags and heads for the front door.

“DON’T GET DISTRACTED, FORDSY.” Bill’s parting words from a few nights ago hiss in Ford’s ears as he ushers his friend inside. The muse had pointed a gnawed-on pawn in his direction and leveled him with a narrowed eye. “YOU’RE ON THE EDGE OF DISCOVERY. DON’T MESS THIS UP.”

“It’s fine,” Ford mutters under his breath. “We’re fine.” He has no intention of getting distracted. He has a deadline after all.

Everything will go according to plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's hoping I can stay on track for the next chapter that was supposed to be part of this one (before this one became 5k words XD)


	5. Microchips and Banjo Strings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or... How Ford manages to miss the looming shadow of his own choices on the horizon of a million tiny red flags.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to admit... this chapter fought me. It's very hard to portray queerplatonic relationship shit when the words just... didn't exist in the seventies.
> 
> Anyway, yall know what's coming. Enjoy the fluff while it lasts.

Ford is distracted. Mere days into Fiddleford moving into the cabin and he’s drawn his friend’s profile in his journal more times than he cares to admit. Without the buffer of Tate there’s an odd tension in the air that Ford cannot quite attribute to the way they had last parted.

Fiddleford hasn’t elaborated on why he seemingly brought all his worldly possessions with him, packed tightly into his little station wagon with barely enough room for the man himself. What’s even stranger to Ford is the picture of Tate that he keeps in his pocket. Not that the keeping of such a photo is strange – Ford himself keeps a photo of Tesla and… another photo he rarely looks at but never wants to lose – but the photo itself appears to have been cut from a larger family photo.

Ford caught a glimpse of Fiddleford’s long slender fingers on one of his son’s shoulders, and Emma-May’s smaller, paler ones on the other, the one time he managed to look at the photo before Fiddleford whisked it back into his pocket like it no longer existed.

Em doesn’t call anymore. Fiddleford didn’t even call home to say he’d arrived safely, or maybe he did and Ford was too busy preparing other parts of the center for occupation by more than one person. Either way, Ford remembers the many, many phone calls Fiddleford made two years ago… and they are more noticeable in their absence.

Even though he is curious by nature, Ford doesn’t ask. The feeling that maybe this, of all things, isn’t his business keeps his curiosity at bay.

So there is the tension of that unknown, combined with the near unbearable desire to reach out and _touch_. Up until that disastrous last day, Ford had been working back towards casual contact with his dearest friend. But once again it is like they never once brushed against each other in their narrow dorm all those years ago, like Fiddleford had never pressed a feather-light kiss against the crown of Ford’s head before making his way out the door.

Ford’s fingers itch with the need to reach for his friend. Aside from that first friendly embrace when Fiddleford first arrived, they’ve barely even bumped shoulders in the narrow hallways. He’d succumbed once that first week, letting his hand brush against Fidds’ own as they sleepily made coffee in the mid-morning.

Good thing that coffee cup wasn’t one he cared about. He hadn’t tried again.

Bill, of course, is thoroughly unimpressed.

“I DON’T UNDERSTAND WHY YOU’RE SO HUNG UP ON THIS CONTACT THING,” he says one night, floating upside down next to Ford as he uses the mindscape to visualize a more complicated bit of the portal diagram.

“You’re purely a being of the mind,” Ford replies absently, tweaking an errant bolt. “There’s been research that humans need a significant amount of skin contact to remain mentally stable. Perhaps that need increases with proximity?”

“SEEMS LIKE A WASTE OF TIME, SIXER,” Bill spins upright and narrows his eye at Ford. “YOU AREN’T GOING TO START WANTING TO SWAP FLUIDS OR ANYTHING ARE YOU? THERE ISN’T ENOUGH ROOM IN YOUR HEAD FOR BOTH ME AND… THAT.” Bill shudders and Ford shudders with him.

“No, no need to worry about that, my friend.” Ford decides to end that thread of conversation before Bill can get any more curious. There are some things he’d rather not talk about, at all if possible. “Come check my equations, I need to be able to give Fiddleford the revised blueprints tomorrow. And hope he doesn’t ask too many questions this time.”

“I HAVE TO GIVE IT TO THE HILLBILLY. HE’S SMARTER THAN I GAVE HIM CREDIT FOR.” Bill snaps his fingers and kicks up his little feet, now covered in bright yellow legwarmers. “HE ALMOST SUSSED OUT MY EXISTENCE WHILE YOU WERE DISTRACTED BY SILLY HUMAN FASHION.”

“It’s not silly, it’s… it doesn’t make sense, Bill!” Ford glares at the offending garments. “By Tesla, you’re going to hate everything else about Fiddleford, but side with him over the most useless accessory humans have ever invented?”

“NOT ENTIRELY USELESS, FORDSY.” Bill crosses his legs at what Fords assumes is the ankle and tucks his hands behind his head. “UNLIKE THAT TACKY RING HE USED TO WEAR. NOW THAT _WAS_ USELESS. I’M GLAD HE GOT RID OF IT, IT COULD CAUSE REAL ISSUES IF IT GOT STUCK IN THE MACHINERY.”

“What ring…” Ford started to ask and then stopped so suddenly the entire mindscape flashed to an empty star-field. His wedding ring. Bill was talking about Fidd’s wedding ring. A ring that Ford clearly remembers Fidds wearing even when he and Em were fighting all those years ago and now… he can’t recall if Fiddleford has worn it since he showed up a few weeks ago.

“HEY, WHAT GIVES!?” Bill’s voice is muffled and he pops back into existence three inches from Ford’s face. “YOU WERE NEARLY DONE WITH CALCULATIONS.”

“I know, I just… You’re right.” Ford waves his hand and the blueprints fade back into sight. Bill hovers, but Ford finishes his calculations without another word. When he wakes up, he feels like he hadn’t slept at all.

\-----

Another couple of weeks pass after that rather illuminating revelation. Ford can’t quite put together the right words to ask about the state of his best friend’s marriage, feels… almost responsible even though he doesn’t know the circumstances.

For all he knows Fidds took off his ring so he wouldn’t lose it in the machinery, but Ford had read Sir Arthur Conan Doyle once, he knows to look for paler skin and groove marks. When he gets a clear enough look, there is little evidence a ring was ever there.

Over time, Fiddleford lets him draw closer, though not as close as Ford would like. He always was a nervous fellow, but now he’s downright jumpy whenever someone enters his personal space. It’s even worse than before and Ford has to wonder what lead to this. It can’t possibly just be the single drunken mistake years before, can it? Could one jar of moonshine really be enough to irreparably damage a friendship?

Kal doesn’t think so.

Not that they’ve had much of a conversion for several weeks. Ford’s barely talked to his siren friend since Fidds came to help. He hasn’t been able to make up a suitable excuse to sneak out and spend a lazy morning doing fuck-all nothing on the shores of Avyysdonti. So one morning he wakes up from a perfectly ordinary muse-less sleep (a rarity these days) to find Fiddleford still swearing over his portable computer project, eyes bloodshot and bruised. A perfect opportunity to slip away to visit his friend.

Ford briefly considers plying his friend with coffee so they can plan for their upcoming expedition to Crash Site Omega. (Ford’s been packed for three days but there are still a lot of small details to plan and supplies to pick up before the two will be fully prepared for the untamed wilds beyond the lake.) But then Fiddleford lets out a jaw-cracking yawn and stretches, back arching just enough that his untucked shirt rides up and not even the painful pops of his settling spine can distract Ford from the sudden consuming urge to settle his hand against the pale warmth of his friend’s exposed skin, just exist alongside each other… Ford shakes his head to dislodge those thoughts.

“We’re taking the morning off,” he says to Fiddleford, pouring all the coffee into his thermos instead of offering any to the bleary-eyed scientist across the room. “Why don’t you get some sleep?”

“Mornin’?” mumbles Fidds, rubbing at his eyes and squinting at his watch. “Last I looked it was… fuck.”

Ford suppresses a snort of laughter. “I guarantee you haven’t moved all night. I have to run some errands, we can go over our camping list when I get back.”

“Right. Campin’. In the woods. With all the creatures that can kill us just by lookin’ at us.” Fidds’ lips thin into a grim line. “Gotta say, Ford. I far preferred camping in the Tennessee mountains. Least there we just had to deal with cougars. Maybe a bear or two.”

“I assure you the gnomes do not hold a grudge,” Ford doubts they remember the incident, honestly. His cognitive tests had been thorough and depressing. “And Steve might have a taste for metal but I doubt that extends to human flesh.”

“It’s not Steve and the gnomes I’m worried about. If they exist… what else is out there? We’re going to an _alien spaceship_ for cryin out loud! I…” Fidds snaps his mouth shut and takes a deep breath through his nose. “Clearly I do need that sleep.” He pushes back from the table and brings his empty mug to the sink, pausing next to Ford to stare out the window at the dawn-lit world beyond. Absently, he leans warm against Ford’s side, turns to press a kiss against his shoulder before hauling himself back upright with another massive yawn. “I’ll see you when you get back, darlin’.”

Ford is left staring after him as he stumbles his way down the hall to bed, wondering what the hell just happened.

\-----

Kal is waiting on the outcropping when Ford arrives at the lake. They have their knees hugged to their chest and are staring out across the sparkling water with a sober expression painted across their normally cheerful face.

Ford drops down beside them with a quiet _oof_ and bumps his shoulder against theirs. “Pebble for your thoughts?”

“Shit, Ford,” Kal says with a start. “Your mama ever teach you not to sneak up on people like that?”

They glare when Ford chuckles. “No, Ma taught me and… Ma taught me to be sneaky. People spend more money when taken unawares.” He doesn’t mention that for all his loud boisterous nature… Stan had always been the better of the two. Ford wasn’t entirely certain, but he thinks his mother may have also taught Stan pick-pocketing and shoplifting.

From what little he’s heard from home or seen on television… Stan seems to be using those skills well. He shakes his head in disgust at himself. Now is not the time to be brooding over his twin, his friend is right here and seems to need cheering.

“Seriously, Kal,” he tries again, twisting open his thermos and offering it to the siren. “What’s eating you? Is everything alright with the choir?”

Kal takes the thermos and takes a long sip, grimacing at the black coffee but not stopped from taking another larger swig. They hand the thermos back and swipe the back of their hand across their mouth, never once taking their eyes off the lake. Ford absently notes that the moving island is a little closer to the shore than usual.

His friend is silent for long minutes, the only sound the soft lap of water against stone. When they speak, their voice is quiet and subdued.

“We’re leaving.”

Ford frowns. “It’s barely September, this is a little early don’t you think? I wanted…” He wanted to introduce Kal to Fiddleford but…

Kal shakes their head. “Avyysdonti… it’s been living up to it’s name lately. No one has died yet, but its been a near thing.” They still haven’t taken their eyes off the water but Ford follows their gaze to the floating island. “We’re going to get a head start on migration so we can speak to some of the other clans before winter sets in. We need to know if they’ve dealt with this in the past and if… if we need to relocate completely.”

Ford feels his heart sink. He’d known that the lake was considered dangerous but he’d thought his friend was used to it, was prepared for it. Now though…

“When?” he asks, shifting his gaze to stare down at his hands, wrapped around the warm thermos like it’s a lifeline. “Should I come by one more time to say goodbye? I wanted to bring Fiddleford…” he stops as Kal leans into his shoulder.

“This _is_ goodbye, my friend. I…” they sniff and Ford realizes that they’re crying. “I delayed as long as I could. Another week and I wouldn’t have been here to greet you. I could have sent a message once south but… it’s not the same. But now I’ve told you… we’ll be gone by tomorrow.”

Ford’s chest aches with some unnamed, unlooked-for emotion. All he can muster is a startled, shaking “oh.” He’s never quite been one for hugs but he turns and wraps his arms around his friend, the one constant across the past few years in Gravity Falls.

They stay like that for a long while, huddled together under the warm and rising late summer sun. Eventually though, Kal draws back with a sniff.

“I’ll write, if I can. The bottle network is frozen in the winter, which is why I haven’t before, but I can send a runner up every few weeks or so.” They pause and snort out a bit of a laugh. “Someone has to keep an eye on you after all.”

Ford scoffs, though his vision is blurring a little oddly. “I’m a grown man, I don’t need supervision.”

“Says the man who got stuck in a tree-stump hole last year.” They grin at Ford’s affronted expression. “The wisps talk, Ford. Everyone knows by now.”

“Great, thanks.” Ford buries his face in his hands. “Glad to know I’m free entertainment for the denizens of the woods.”

There’s a light touch on his shoulder and he looks up to find Kal staring at him somberly. “All joking aside… take care of yourself while I’m gone. You’ve got a tendency to stretch yourself too thin and… I’d hate to come back and find that something terrible happened.”

Ford lays his own large, warm hand over Kal’s cold, slender one. “I don’t plan on leaving anytime soon. I promise I’ll be here when you get back. Because you _will_ be coming back. Even if I have to clear this lake of danger myself.”

They hug goodbye one last time and then Kal is gone, slipping through the water so smoothly there’s barely a ripple to show they were ever there.

Ford never had his mother’s talent for prediction, but he can’t shake the feeling that he’s missing a vital piece of some larger puzzle.

\-----

He remembers Kal’s words about Avyysdonti “living up to it’s name” a few days later when he and Fiddleford stand scratching their head over the biggest tooth Ford has ever seen.

“This here’s a mighty big beastie,” says Fiddleford from where he’s scrambling about taking notes. “Not sure I wanna know everythin’ but we should probably at least know it’s habitat. So’s we can avoid it.”

“ _Avyysdonti_ ,” says Ford under his breath, then louder, “Just don’t go swimming, Fidds. I’m fairly certain it lives in the lake.”

“Well that’s downright disappointin’.” Fiddleford lets his measuring tape snap shut and trudges back up the embankment towards Ford. “It’s a perfect day for a dip in the lake. Better’n the cow ponds back home.”

Ford eyes the floating island in the distance, noting that it’s moved closer to the downstream egress. He tries very hard not to think about the reasons it might have done so and hopes that Kal and their people made it safely out. The bottle network probably won’t be up and running for another couple of weeks, but if the island is the monster he thinks it might be… who knows when he’ll be able to hear from his friend again.

He says none of this to his friend. Instead he shrugs his pack higher on his shoulder and nods upstream. “While I agree that this lake might be better than a cow pond and I would like a dip myself sometime, we need to keep moving. We’ve got quite a ways to go if we want to reach Gravity Peak by nightfall.”

Fiddleford sidles up next to him and frowns at the mountains ahead. “You sure we can get all the way up there before dark, Stanferd? That’s quite a bit of ground to cover and well…” he laughs a bit and elbows Ford in the side. “I might be full of stubborn Appalachian cussedness, but that’s no match for whatever you’ve been doing the past few years! I’m having a mess of a time just tryin’ to keep up.”

Ford had noticed this earlier (had even made some… rather unflattering remarks in his journal, if he’s honest) but his ma raised him better than to say any of this out loud. He waves his hand in the direction of Trembley Falls, barely a smudge of mist in the distance. “That’s why we’re taking a shortcut. We can avoid the steep climb on the outside of the mountain and take a gentler approach from within.”

With a derisive snort, Fidds starts moving down the narrow path towards the falls. “So that’s why you brought that useless relic.” He taps the ancient lantern hanging from Ford’s pack with his walking stick as he passes. “If you’da told me I could have whipped up something that’d work. That thing looks like you dug it straight outta my grandpappy’s barn.”

“If you must know, I bought this at the Gravity Falls swap-meet and haven't had a chance to use it yet.” Ford tries not to feel offended, he knows that of the two of them he’s got a better appreciation for the delightful aesthetic of antique camping gear. He’d only been to the swap-meet once, just to get a feeling for the town and see if there were any interesting stalls run by local cryptids.

Unfortunately, he’d only uncovered a bog-standard fae shenanigan that he wanted absolutely nothing to do with. He’d backed away as fast as he dared and swore to never speak of it again.

But he had ended up with this quite fascinating lantern and a practically-new bedroll for his troubles. Not from the fae, he wasn’t a complete idiot, but from the nice lady three stalls down who’d said she’d “had a vision of a blessed future” and to take them for free.

He’s still not sure what she meant, but surely that came with at least a little bit of luck?

An hour later, when he’s struggling to light the lantern in a pitch-dark cave, he’s beginning to suspect luck has nothing to do with it.

“How in the everloving, blessed fuck do you forget _matches_?” Fiddleford hisses as he digs through his own pack. “You were in charge of survival gear, how are we even supposed to light a fire tonight??”

Ford shrugs helplessly, though his friend can’t see him in the pitch black of the tunnel. “I brought… marshmallows,” he mumbles, fingers wrapped tight around his dead lantern like a lifeline. “For the scampfires.”

“For the…” Fidds’ voice is sharply incredulous. “Really, Ford? For the scampfires? You were just going to… to lure some wild anomaly into camp? Just invite the mothman while you’re at it!”

“I don’t invite that pest to do anything, he invites himself!” snaps Ford.

Silence fills the air and then Fiddleford sighs heavily. “Why am I not surprised that you know mothman… no, don’t answer that.” Ford closes his mouth with an audible snap and his friend continues. “Way I see it we got two options: forward or backward. We can’t just sit in this cave waiting for rescue, nobody knows we’re out here.”

“We can’t turn back now,” Ford would pace but he doesn’t know where the walls are and he’s no good to anyone knocked unconscious. “We need that hyperdrive. I…” he stops and blinks into the darkness. “Wait, did you hear that?”

He shushes Fiddleford as he starts to ask what, and they listen in complete silence to the distant howl of wind and… _there._ A high pitched hum that at first Ford had thought was his own ears, but is moving steadily closer. Accompanying it is the _tink_ of crystal against stone.

Something warm bumps up against Ford’s side and he narrowly avoids yelping before he realizes Fiddleford has clutched onto his arm like a lifeline. “We’re gonna get ate, Ford. It’s gonna fuckin’ eat us and no one’s ever gonna find our corpses,” hisses his friend as the crystalline sound draws closer.

Ford’s heart is pounding in his ears but he swallows down his own nerves as he squeezes one of Fiddleford’s bony shoulders. “I’m sure it’s quite alright. I wasn’t aware of anything living in these caves but I’ve never seen evidence of anything large enough to eat humans I…” He squints into the dark as two pale orbs move steadily closer. “Are you seeing this, Fidds?”

“I sure wish I wasn’t” comes the grumbling reply, but the deathgrip around Ford’s bicep lessens. He tries not to feel too disappointed.

The two scientists watch in fascinated and vaguely apprehensive silence as a crystal-covered orb waddles into sight, eyes emitting an eerie glow. It looks up at them and lets out a squeaking chirp, glow increasing as it’s eyes widen.

“Oh, look at this little fellow!” Ford crouches down and holds out one hand, smile splitting his face as the crystalline creature hops over and looks curiously at his fingers. “I don’t think we need to be afraid of this at all!”

Fiddleford makes a noise of protest as Ford scoops the creature up into his hands to get a closer look at it. It sits placidly in his palms for a few moments, then lets out a high and clear sustained note almost ending in a bit of a coo. From the darkness, more eyes blink open and make their way towards the men, crystal feet _tinking_ softly against the pockmarked stone of the tunnel floor.

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” Ford says, excited awe creeping into his voice. “How do you suppose they form? Are they an animal, or some kind of living mineral? Look! It’s almost like they’re dancing!”

He nods towards the gathered creatures, chirping harmoniously and bobbing along in the glow of their own eyes.

“I suppose they might be,” says Fiddleford and Ford can _hear_ the frown likely painted across his face. “But how are they going to help us get out of the cave or light our lantern?” There’s a rustle and then the pale profile of his face appears in the gloom, lit by the dim light of two creatures as he carefully inspects them. “Hmm… hand me that useless hunk of iron for a moment?”

Ford hands the lantern over, content with squinting at the dark stone and light crystal of the little orb. It chirps merrily at him and he smiles. “I suppose we could entice a large number of them to gather in one area and then use that light to guide us out of the tunnel?”

“That seems mighty inefficient, Stanferd.” There’s a metallic clink as Fiddleford sets the lantern down. “I’ve got a better solution. Ya see… I’m pretty sure these little fellers are some kinda quartz amalgam and if I get it just right I think I ken...”

Before Ford can reach over to stop him, Fidds slams his hands together, striking the two creatures together with a painful scraping crack. The lantern sparks to life and all the little crystal critters start chiming in alarm. The two Fidds had struck together flee immediately, followed by their brethren. The one in Ford’s hands makes a distressed sound and bites him hard on the thumb. With a curse, Ford drops the creature and it scampers off to the edge of the lantern light with a droning whine.

“Well. Now we know why we didn’t see them before,” Ford says as he stands up, dusting off his pantlegs. “What were you going to do if that didn’t work?”

“Use your hard head as a striker,” mutters Fidds under his breath. “Realistically, bang on the walls enough with a piece of stone and eventually somethin’ would make a spark. That just seemed like the quickest solution. Can we please leave before we find out if there’s an angry mama somewhere?”

“Yes, yes of course,” Ford scrambles to pick up the lantern and leads Fidds onward down the tunnel. “Only another hour or so until we reach the exit!”

Fiddleford grumbles, but follows Ford. He has little choice in the matter now.

\-----

Dusk is falling by the time the two scientists clamber out of the abandoned mining tunnel that connects to the geodite cave. Ford had named the little creatures during the second leg of their hike and Fidds had agreed that combining “geode” and “light” created a suitably cutesy name for the small crystal orbs.

“I’d like to go back and study them further when I have the chance,” says Ford as he outlines the perimeter of their camp, tracing runes into the dirt with a sharpened birch wand. Fiddleford watches with skeptical interest, idly picking something out on his ever-present banjo. By now he’s used to the anti-fog runes along the edge of the bathroom mirror and that one warming rune scratched into the surface of Ford’s favorite lab bench for his coffee but…

“It’s a foregone conclusion you’ll go back to see if them critters hold grudges. I always knew that. What I don’t know is… what the hell you’re doing playin’ in the dirt.”

Ford looks up and grins proudly. “Oh this? This is just a little something I whipped up to keep the mosquitoes and other malcontents out of our camp! Anything bigger and I’d need some fancy ingredients but a birch wand from the unicorn grove works well enough for just the two of us.” He waves his arm at the mostly-completed circle around their campfire. “This way we didn’t even have to carry a tent!”

Fiddleford levels him with a flat expression. “And will this… ‘little something’ keep the rain out, oh mighty wizard?”

“Nope,” Ford stands and arches his back, sighing with relief when his spine pops back into place. “But we don’t need to worry about the rain. I did the chants and the dance last week. Should be clear until we get home.” He pauses and makes a show of thinking. “Or cuthulu could show up. Body magic is an inexact science and I’m not the most graceful dancer. Sta… Shermie surpassed me in that regard.”

Fidds raises his eyebrow and Ford thinks for one terrifying moment if he’s going to ask about the stumbled-over name. Then he clicks his tongue dismissively and flicks his thumb over his banjo-strings. “Pity about the dancing.” It might be a trick of the firelight in the growing night, but Ford could have sworn on his photo of Tesla that Fiddleford flushed before rushing into his next words. “I mean! I was hoping to play some more upbeat music! If you were a better dancer perhaps you’d enjoy it more!”

Ford chuckles and reaches down to close the rune circle with a flick of his wrist. It flares a deep blue before settling into a gentle background shimmer, like a soap bubble in a forgotten Glass Shard Summer. “The best I ever managed with dancing was a gentle swaying with my ma during our Bar Mitzvah… otherwise I would have stepped on her toes! My brother though! He really took ma for a spin!”

He smiles at the memory, a rare happy one, watching Stan spin their mother across the dance floor before the night really got going. He’d been content to watch the dancing from the sidelines, but had gotten dragged in for the horah by a laughing Stan.

“ _Hard to get the steps wrong when you’re_ _sitting in a chair, poindexter_ _!”_ his brother had yelled over the hubbub.

Ford feels an ache in his chest and firmly shoves those memories into the back of his mind. Where they belonged.

“You haven’t told me much about Shermie, what’s he like?” Fidds asks, breaking the sudden tense silence.

Ford is momentarily thrown, _when had they been talking about Shermie?,_ before he remembers he’d never quite worked up the nerve to tell Fidds about his twin. And it’s much too late for that now.

Shermie is a much safer topic anyway.

He tells Fiddleford about Shermie, his successful lawyer brother settled happily in Piedmont. About Shermie’s son Alexander, a bright young lad with an even brighter future. About never having time to see them because he’s too busy with his work.

“Of course, I’ll have all the time in the world once I prove my theory! Though, afterwards I still might not have time. I’ll be dining with the best of the best, I really could be the next Einstein!” says Ford, leaning back in the soft summer grass to stare up at the star-strewn inky sky. “But I have to finish what I started first. I know you came here as a favor… what are your plans once we’re done?”

He regrets asking as Fidds’ face twists momentarily, but the expression fades as Fiddleford settles down beside him. They’re so close that if if Ford reached out a scant few inches he could wrap his hand around his friends. He doesn’t, but he could.

“I just want... a nice place with a screen door that doesn’t bang in the wind,” Fidds says quietly. “I wanna build robots that help people, improve quality of life or somethin’. Maybe get a few patents under my belt. Nothin’ like your ‘Grand Unified Theory’ but certainly attainable.” He pauses for a long moment and then lets his head tilt towards Ford. “All the time in the world, huh? Got any other plans besides becomin’ a household name? What about a household for yourself? With even a fraction of what you’ve discovered… you could publish now and live handsomely off the royalties for years to come. Maybe settle down… start a family.”

Ford can’t help the incredulous barking laugh that bursts from his lips.

“Moses… can you imagine me having a family? I barely understand how friendship works, Fidds.” Ford can’t bring himself to turn his face the three inches it will take to face his companion. “I can understand the complexities of counterclockwise quantum wormhole mechanics but the social hurdles required to, ugh… _romance_ someone long enough to start a family? Not to mention my general distaste for the other messier bits of… well. We’ve had this conversation before. I’m better off alone.”

Ford trails off, eyes fixed on the endless expanse of sky arching over their campsite. He wonders, as he often does, what else is out there that he can’t see, how much is left to discover in his own universe, much less the infinite number of other dimensions. Is there a dimension where he doesn’t have this conversation? Where he doesn’t lay in the cooling grass, close enough to his best friend to be able to feel the warmth of his skin? Where he doesn’t crave innocent contact with a nebulous ache where his heart should be? Where the thought of romance doesn’t send alarm bells crashing through his skull? Where… he grinds his whirring brain to a halt. There’s no use thinking about that before he can get through the portal to test every theorem he could ever dream of.

Clearing his throat, he continues. “Besides… if I stop to publish now… Everyone will come running. All my progress will get buried under the achievements of others. I cannot just stand by and let that happen! I must…”

He freezes as he feels his friend’s warm and banjo calloused fingers wrap around his hand.

“Alright. So we keep goin’. Nobody’s gonna steal your thunder. You don’t have to be alone, either.” Fiddleford chuckles and rubs his thumb gently over Ford’s knuckles before flipping his hand over and slotting their fingers together. It’s aching in its familiarity and Ford doesn’t even have moonshine to blame this time.

“We can’t do this again.” Ford snatches his hand away. “You’ve got Em. I’ve got science.” The words come out sharper than he intended and he knows he’s made a mistake when his friend stiffens beside him. He shouldn’t have unearthed that fight, he should have let it stay buried, he should have...

“About that,” says Fiddleford slowly, breaking Ford’s racing train of thought. “I… I shoulda told you earlier but…” he laughs, but there’s no humor in the tone. “I suppose I thought you’d gather the circumstances by my haulin’ everything but the old washtub up here with me. Em and I… well, when you called me I was livin’ outta my own garage. The only reason I was delayed so long getting’ up here was I needed to make sure the divorce papers got filed all proper.”

The sky is no longer as interesting as the man laying next to him in the grass. Ford rolls up on his elbow to frown down at his friend. “I thought you had gone home to try and make it work with Em?”

“Oh, I tried alright.” Fidds chuckles again but now Ford can see the wry pinched expression on his face and the shuttered dullness of his eyes. “Felt my soul dying a little more everyday but by golly I sure did try. In the end though… I couldn’t give her what she wanted. It was ugly, Ford.” Fidds pauses and his eyes dart away as he mutters something under his breath about _mighta gone a little too far with the pterodactyl-tron._

Ford decides he’s probably better off not knowing.

“Anyways, it’s like you said before. I’m better off alone,” says Fiddleford, and Ford knows this isn’t true by the crack in his friend’s voice and the long memories of time spent together.

Any words he might say seem trite in his own head so instead he reaches out and takes Fiddleford’s hand again before laying down close against his friend’s side. They lay staring at the sky in silence for a minute before Ford finds his voice.

“You aren’t alone. And… perhaps I was mistaken when I said I was. As long as we have each other, we’ll be alright.”

Fiddleford chuckles, and this time it’s genuine. “I suppose you’re technically correct.” There’s a rustle in the grass as Fidds rolls toward Ford and meets his eyes. There’s a steely determination there, almost mirroring his expression from the gnome fight so many years ago. “I can’t offer much and I don’t expect anythin’ in return, but I think I’d like to stay by your side as long as you’ll have me. As… as friends or maybe as somethin’… a bit more? I know I don’t have any right to ask this but…”

Ford reaches out and gathers Fiddleford into his arms. “You’re welcome to stay by my side as long as you can stand me, my dear friend. I…” he struggles to find the words, nothing seems to fully encompass the feelings he has towards his friend. There’s no butterflies or increased heart-rate or any of the nonsense Stan used to talk about that sounded so like food poisoning. There’s just his friend, steadfast and sure, who used to press soft kisses to the top of his head and remind him that somewhere out there is a person who _cares._

“I can’t offer much either,” he finally says, muffled against the top of Fidds head. “I’m a focused man who gets sucked into his studies so deep I forget that food exists, much less other people. But… I’d very much like for you to be beside me. As a friend and a bit dearer than a friend.” He chuckles into his friend’s hair. “For a scientist, I’m not making much sense.”

“You’re a theoretical physicist, not a psychologist.” Ford can hear the eyeroll in Fiddleford’s voice. “Now if you don’t mind, I’d very much like to kiss you and then we’d best get to sleep if we wanna reach your alleged spacecraft afore noon tomorrow.”

“Promise you won’t run back to California this time?” says Ford, leaning back to look his friend in the eye. He hopes his eyes are twinkling with the teasing.

“California? No. Only thing left for me there is Tate, and he’ll come visit me wherever I am.” Fiddleford leans in, pressing chapped lips softly against Ford’s own. It lasts only a moment, but Ford is relieved that nothing shifts drastically. It’s the most natural thing in the world to apply a gentle pressure back, nothing more than an acknowledgment that _I am here and I am not going anywhere else anytime soon._

The moment is broken a short while later as Fiddleford lets out a jaw-cracking yawn. “That bedroll got room for one more? We’ll be warmer if we share body heat.”

“That’s a sneaky way of asking to cuddle, Fidds,” says Ford with a grin. He hesitates, debating with himself, then reaches up and settles his broad palm against his best friend’s cheek. Some last bit of tension dissolves in his chest as Fiddleford turns into the touch with a content sigh. “I suppose I can find room for your skinny backside.”

Fiddleford squawks indignantly but that doesn’t stop him from pressing into Ford’s space to brush another gentle kiss to his lips. It feels like safety and home and the contentment of no expectations for anything more than the closeness of another human being.

Ford could ask for nothing more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :3  
> As I said before. Yall know what's coming.


End file.
